The Art of Cunning
by draco dominus
Summary: Everything was normal at the Gryffindor table that breakfast, not even the Slytherin sitting surrounded by red and gold was a strange affair. As Sherlock Holmes more often than not, ate with the Gryffindors instead of his own house, and had been doing so for years.
1. The Beginning of the End

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. I own nothing.

This story is a sequel to The House of Deduction. It may not be necessary to read it, as it is set years before (first year) but it will give backstory, and sets the story. And everything will probably make more sense if you do, so I suggest going to read that first actually.

**The Art of Cunning**

**Chapter One**

**The Beginning of the End**

Everything was normal at the Gryffindor table that breakfast, not even the Slytherin sitting surrounded by red and gold was a strange affair. As Sherlock Holmes more often than not, ate with the Gryffindors instead of his own house, and had been doing so for years. The Gryffindors had stopped throwing a fuss over it. The first years were always very confused to find a Slytherin at their table, but it was well into Sherlock's sixth year, and they were used to it by now.

Sherlock wasn't eating, he didn't eat breakfast, and no matter what John said, he wasn't about to start. He glanced up from his book, to see John frowning at him, Sherlock shook his head. "No," he said simply. John gave a resigned sigh, and picked up his piece of toast.

"Oi freak, pass the salt."

"Are you sure you want me to?" Sherlock drawled at him, putting his book to the side. "I might contaminant it after all," despite almost becoming an honorary Gryffindor member, Sally Donnovan continued with her open dislike of him, she was not the only one, although a collection of Gryffindors tolerated him for John's sake. He did however pick it up and pass it sideways to her. "By the way Donnovan," he said with a sideways glance. "If you are going to sneak out to snog, surely even _you_ could do better than Anderson."

She spluttered at him, holding tightly onto the salt shaker and just staring at him. "Mind your own business freak," she scowled.

"I will admit," Sherlock continued as if she hadn't spoken. Beside him John sighed, but continued to eat, he had a feeling breakfast was going to end shortly. "I'm quite surprised, I thought us Slytherins were beneath you."

"Us Slytherins is it still?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

He rolled her eyes. "You might be stupid, but I didn't think you were blind, my tie _is _still green and silver, it is still my house. Whether or not I spend time with you Gryffindors, I still hold the Slytherin traits, they do not disappear because I sit at a different table."

"Yeah, traits like evil and nutcases," she muttered under her breath.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "At least I'm not ignorant and stupid," he picked up his book. "But I'll pass that onto Anderson shall I? I'm sure he'll appreciate what you think of him. Come on John."

Donnovan sent Sherlock a scathing look. "He treats you like a dog," she said to John, who ignored her and followed Sherlock out of the great hall. "You could at least deny it!" she yelled after Sherlock.

* * *

"Why are you frowning?" John asked, glancing sideways from his notes to Sherlock, who had an empty page in front of him and was staring at the wall. Not appearing to be paying the slightest bit of attention to Professor Hudson, but knowing Sherlock he probably was. "I know that frown, and you have no reason for it. Nothing's happened," he narrowed his eyes slightly. "Has it?"

Sherlock shook his head at his friend. "No," he said. "But that is the whole point. He doesn't usually take this long to start something."

"Maybe he graduated last year?"

The he that they were talking about was Richard Brook, the illustrious note writer that Sherlock had been passing notes with since first year. Of course then, they hadn't known who he was. Only the initials, the course of the events of that year led them to his last name, and it was when Sherlock connected that the Brook, Professor Hope had been talking about, was the RB that he had been writing notes with all year, they found us his first name.

Not that it was any use at all, no matter how they had searched there was no Richard Brooks, certainly not at Hogwarts. And both Sherlock and John were convinced that he was a Hogwarts student. He had also been at the root of almost every event Sherlock and John had been involved in since they started Hogwarts.

"No."

"And how do you know that?" It was obvious by his voice that he was thinking that despite his knowledge, Sherlock didn't know everything.

"If it was his last year, he would have left with a bang. He's been playing with us all these years, he had some grand plan up his sleeve," he frowned, thrumming his fingers on the table. "He's either in our year, or the year above, how hard can it be to find him?"

The answer was impossible, because five years later they still had no clue.

John frowned at him. "Only you would be worried by inactivity Sherlock."

"I shouldn't be, the calm before the storm John."

"You're just bored," he accused.

"That too," Sherlock admitted.

"Mr Watson, Mr Holmes, if you could pay attention?" Professor Hudson was staring at them, as was part of the class now that they had been called up on talking.

"Sorry Professor," they chorused.

* * *

"Password?" The Fat Lady said, eyeing Sherlock and John, she was not particularly fond of allowing other houses into the common room, especially Slytherins. But she had resigned herself that if anyone was the exception to the rule it was Sherlock Holmes. He practically lived in the common room anyway.

"Leo corde," Sherlock answered before John even opened his mouth, the portrait swung open, and the two boys entered. They found Mike and Carl sitting in chairs near the fire and joined them, the two Gryffindors grinned at them, John grinned back, and Sherlock gave a small smile.

"We could do with some of your potions help here Sherlock," Carl said with a gesture towards a half written potions essay sitting in front of him. "Merlin knows you read enough potions books to be able to recite them off the top of your head."

"And his brilliant memory doesn't hurt either," Mike added under his breath.

"You really could just go for your Newts this year, you'd probably pass."

"With flying colours."

"Oh stop it you two," John said with a shake of his head. "Do your own homework you slackers."

"Well that's just boring isn't it?" Carl said wrinkling his nose.

Sherlock snorted.

* * *

Thinking that John should have gone into Hufflepuff so he didn't need to walk down seven flights of stairs, Sherlock headed back to the Slytherin common room. He was pushing it, and would only just get there in time for curfew, if he was lucky.

He tended to avoid his common room as much as possible, he had nothing against the room itself, in fact he quite liked it, but the people were another matter completely.

Giving the wall the password he entered the common room, to find it empty, with the exception of Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty sitting on a couch doing homework.

Jim glanced up at the sound of Sherlock's footsteps. "Out again Holmes?" he asked, there was a mocking hint to his voice, the two never outwardly argued or were hostile to each other, but there was a hint of something else behind their words.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied with an eye roll. "Why ask questions you know the answer to Moriarty?"

"I _am _a prefect you know, I could perfectly well put you in detention for breaching curfew."

"You do that then," Sherlock answered, heading towards the dorms.

Jim just grinned at him.

The problem Sherlock thought, with sharing a dorm with people he _knew _that he couldn't trust, was that he always had to be careful. Careful what he said around Moriarty and Moran. Careful that he wasn't going to get a black eye around Anderson and Wilkes. Mycroft had left the school two years previous, and with it the threat of bad things happening if one attacked his younger brother.

Fourth year had been a bad year all round. Especially when one added in the werewolf.

At least Anderson had stopped trying to creep up on him in the night when Sherlock had put a protective spell around his bed, and Anderson had gotten such a shock that he couldn't sit down for a week.

It wasn't really a surprise that he spent more time with John and the Gryffindors, at least they were honest about the fact that they didn't like him.

* * *

After dinner the next evening instead of heading up to Gryffindor tower with John, Sherlock headed back down to the dungeons, but to the potions classroom rather than his common room. Some years previous Slughorn had opened an offer for Sherlock to use the potions room in his spare time if he wanted to. Mostly just to stop him experimenting in class, when he was supposed to be doing class work. Sherlock was the only one still exploding cauldrons, despite the fact that he was the best potionier in the class, simply because his experiments weren't always sound.

He entered the classroom to find it empty, more often than not it was, Slughorn used to oversee it when he was in the classroom, but these years later he trusted Sherlock enough to not need a guardian sitting there and watching.

He opened his notebook, and gathered the ingredients for a potion that he was working on and set to work, making adjustments to his method as he went along.

"Try stirring it clockwise."

Where anyone else might have jumped a foot in the air, Sherlock simply nodded, he had noticed the Severus Snape slink into a portrait on the wall a few minutes previous. "Aha," he said with a smile, as stirring it clockwise as opposed to anti-clockwise lightened the colour to the sky blue colour that he was aiming for.

"You would have more success if you altered other potions to suit your needs instead of trying to make them from scratch."

"Possibly," Sherlock murmured adding a pinch of sodium dichromate to the mixture. "They don't work as well however when you are using muggle chemicals instead of just magical plants. If I start from scratch, I have to think about the cause and affect, whether than learn it when I add the wrong ingre-" he didn't get to finish his sentence as the potion started to bubble and overflow.

Cursing he scrambled for his wand and vanished the whole lot. With a sigh he turned back to his notes.

Severus snorted. "Magic and chemistry is not to meant to mix Holmes, there is a reason your potions aren't working as planned."

"I'll get them to," he muttered stubbornly. Though he had a feeling Severus could be right, it was too unstable, magical properties cancelling out the chemical ones, and the chemicals changing the properties of the magical ones. It needed years of research before it was likely to be able to be used. To figure out how the combinations of chemicals and magical ingredients interacted.

* * *

I hope everyone enjoyed the first chapter, and enjoys the rest of the fic. (If you do, don't hesitate to review.)


	2. Explosions and Potions

**Chapter Two**

**Explosions and Potions**

"You look tired," John noted when Sherlock sat down beside him in charms the next morning, just before the bell rang singling the start of class.

"Up late," Sherlock replied as he pulled his books out of his bag, flipping to the chapter that they were going through at the moment. They were doing theory work, to make sure that they had that mostly down pat for their upcoming exams.

"In the potions room again?" He nodded. John frowned. "You shouldn't spend so much time in there you know," he said thumbing to the right page, after peering at the number in Sherlock's book. "Or at least, till so late at night."

"I like it in there," Sherlock protested. "And I like potions."

"Stops you exploding them in class at least," he gave Sherlock a rueful grin. "How is it going anyway? Any luck."

He sighed. "Sort of, every time I think I'm getting closer something goes wrong and ruins the calculation," he frowned deeply. "Snape doesn't think it'll ever work, he doesn't think magic and muggle science should be mixed. Or rather, he thinks I should stop trying to get it to work, even if it might. But it won't until after years of study, and he thinks I should focus on something I can achieve."

"Maybe you should?" he suggested. Sherlock threw him a sharp look and John shrugged. "You're brilliant Sherlock, imagine what you could do if you stuck with just potions, instead of dabbling in something that might not even be possible."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "You're the Gryffindor John, you're meant to be telling me to 'follow my dreams'," he rolled his eyes to show exactly what he thought about those three words. "And beside, I like experimenting, I may as well spend that time properly doing it, because I can't in class time," he wrinkled his nose and John hid a laugh, Professor Slughorn was never impressed if he passed Sherlock on his rounds around the room, and Sherlock's potion was a completely different one to one they had been making.

* * *

"You're going to be late if you don't leave soon," Sherlock commented without glancing up from the essay that he was writing. The two sat in a secluded corner of the library, one that Sherlock had staked out years back.

"Hmm?" John asked, with a troubled expression, looking up from his essay. "Oh!" he jumped to his feet. "Right, thanks," he scrambled his books together and threw them messily into his bag. "I'll see you tomorrow, and don't stay up too late," he berated.

"Yes mother," Sherlock said under his breath as John left the library to head to the hospital wing. He had commented an interest in becoming a healer to the matron the year before when the both of them were camped out there for a few days from injuries.

The good thing that had come out of that for John, was that the matron seemed willing to give John some basic lessons that could help him get into a course once he finished school. It certainly wouldn't help to have a reference.

* * *

"Mr Holmes," Sherlock glanced up at Professor Hudson, who was walking up and down the desks collecting essays. "Your essay?"

"Uh," Sherlock said eloquently, with a sideways glance at John who gave him a look that said 'I'm not helping you, I did tell you to write it.' "I'll hand it in tomorrow Professor," he said, she frowned at him, and he gave her a winning smile. "Tomorrow then," she said fondly but firmly. "If I don't get it tomorrow you'll fail the assessment, understood?"

"Yes Professor."

She collected John's essay and headed to the next row. "…you are going to write the whole essay in a night?" John asked him.

Sherlock shrugged. "How hard can it be?"

"Considering it took me the better half of a week?"

"So I should have ample time to do it in a night."

"I don't see why you couldn't do it last night."

"Didn't feel like it last night."

"Sherlock," he said with a sigh and a shake of his head. "It's a wonder how you haven't failed."

Sherlock smirked at him. "No it's not John, my work is to a very high standard-"

"When you do it," he added as an undertone.

"-they can't afford to throw me out."

"Yeah, because of your brother, and parents."

Sherlock scowled at him. "I _can _do things by my own merit John," he said peevishly, and grabbed out a scroll of parchment to start writing the essay that was already meant to be finished and handed in.

* * *

"To Gryffindor?" Sherlock asked, as John pushed his plate away from him, signalling that he had finished his meal.

"Got rounds Sherlock," John reminded him gently, as he got to his feet.

Sherlock made a face. "Prefects," he muttered, slightly disdainfully, which John ignored as he always did.

* * *

"You coming?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nah, I'm going to go down to the potions classroom, work on that a bit. And before you ask, I finished my essay. Go do whatever you Gryffindors do, with Mike and Carl."

"Night Sherlock."

"Goodnight John."

* * *

John held up a library book to Carl and Mike. "Gotta go return this," he said getting to his feet. "Be back in a mo, also, Mike take his rook with your bishop," he grinned as Carl cursed and headed out of the common room.

He'd was exiting the library when Professor McGonagall hurtled past, followed by Professor Turner, both looking extremely rattled. "Professor?" he said tentatively, and they both stopped in their tracks to glance at John. "What happened?" he asked worriedly.

McGonagall gestured for John to walk with them as they hurried along the hallway. "There was some form of…explosion, in the dungeons," she said with a deep frown.

John hid a groan, please tell me Sherlock hadn't just blown up the potions classroom, he willed silently. "The potions room?" he said, hoping that the answer would be no. All the fantastic grades in the world wouldn't get Sherlock out of trouble for blowing up the school.

She shook her head. "Further up the hallway, it's completely blocked the hallway to the potions classroom however. Not far enough up the hallway to block off the Slytherin common room though," at this she glanced at him, wondering if she had just outed the whereabouts of the common room. Until she figured that Sherlock had probably already told him, or even showed him. It wasn't a secret to the staff that Sherlock spent more time in Gryffindor than he did with his own house.

"Easily removed yeah?" he asked. "Clear it and fix it all up with magic?"

She sighed. "If only that was the case, according to Professor Turner here," with that she turned to the teacher trailing them. The one who Sherlock had made cry in his first week of school. "There's a shield of some sort up, shouldn't be too hard to pull down though," she added seeing John's expression start to get worried. "I suspect Mr Holmes had decided tonight was a nice evening to go experimenting in the potions classroom again?"

"Uh, yeah," he nodded.

She muttered something under her breath that John didn't quite catch, but did hear 'if this is his fault' before it trailed off into an incomprehensible threat. John was really hoping that Sherlock hadn't managed to blow up the school.

"Minerva," she glanced at the wall.

"Yes Severus?" she asked without even slowing down, the portrait moving along the walls of the castle in speed with them.

"Holmes is trapped down there, though he's a bit too preoccupied with his potion to be bothered at the moment," John wasn't sure whether Severus sounded pleased at that or not.

"He wasn't the cause then?" No need to sound so surprised, John thought.

"Of course not Minerva," at least Severus thought the idea as silly. "No student can blow up the hallway twenty meters up the hallway, and hex it so the rubble can't be cleared away without any conscious decision to."

She sighed. "I know Severus, I was just hoping."

"Hoping that he'd exploded your school?"

"Well if he'd exploded it accidently whilst messing about with those experiments of his, then it means it isn't somebody else, doing it purposely. And the year was going so well too," she sighed again and shook her head, muttering something about, that she hadn't broken any mirrors, so Hogwarts should stop getting seven years of bad luck when certain students arrived at the school.

"I suspect it is the usual suspect."

"That isn't much help Severus, because whilst we find the people behind each different scheme, we never find the person behind all of them," at here she glanced at John, as if it was his fault they didn't. Part of it could have been, he and Sherlock weren't a hundred per cent honest with her about what they discovered about Richard Brook.

* * *

"Did you even _notice _that you were stuck in here?"

"Hello John," Sherlock replied, not glancing away from his potion as he added some torn up leaves of fire few. "And of course I did, I heard the explosion, heard the falling rubble. Also noticed the fact that no one was coming in here to make sure I was okay, so either no body noticed the school had exploded or," he put the metal rod into the cauldron and gave the potion a clockwise stir. "I was stuck down here. Now considering there was no way that an exploding school wouldn't be noticed. I was stuck down here. Hello Professor," he added at the end, still not looking up from his potion. "Find out who blew up the school? What hex was used to stop you pulling the debris out by the way?"

"How-"

"The explosion was a while back, shouldn't have taken that long to clear it all away, not with magic, so there was something stopping you. A magical shield."

"Huh," said John, clearly impressed.


	3. The Game is On

**Chapter Three**

**The Game is On**

Heading up to Defence Against The Dark Arts from the Great Hall the next morning, John turned to say something to Sherlock and realised that the boy was no longer walking beside him. He stopped walking, and blinked a few times. "Where'd he go?" he muttered under his breath with a shake of his head.

Carl who had been walking beside John, turned around and shrugged. "You know him," he said. "He would have run off with some pressing idea that can't wait for break."

"Yeah… he does."

Sherlock just got to class in time, slipping into the chair beside John just as the bell rang. "Where'd you go?" John asked him quietly. Sherlock mutely held up a folded piece of paper, and John gave a troubled frown. "Again?" he said with a sigh, and Sherlock nodded. "How'd you know he'd left a note?"

"I presumed he'd been the cause of the exploding corridor last night," he answered as the class got to their feet, and Professor Lestrade pushed the desks to the side of the room, as they were going to be duelling. "I figured he'd leave a note to talk about what he was planning, I was right."

"What's it say?" John asked, as they lined up on opposite ends of the room, and the teacher went up and down the lines giving them corresponding numbers with someone on the other side of the room.

Sherlock passed the note to him, and John unfolded the piece of paper. It gave directions to a room, the directions were quite vague, and with a glance at Sherlock John could tell that he was unravelling them as he stood there. "Fifth floor, second corridor, first room on the right." John just stared at him, he shouldn't be surprised, this was Sherlock after all, but he never did cease to be surprised. Sherlock smirked at him, sensing his wonder. "Think about it," is all he told him. And John stared at the note, and did think about it, and still didn't get any closer to figuring it out.

"You're brilliant you are," he told Sherlock, right before his number was called, and he went off to duel Molly Hooper. John won.

* * *

"Uh, Sherlock, transfiguration is in the other direction," John pointed out as when they reached the staircase instead of going down the stairs to the transfiguration classroom, he headed up.

Carl hovered on the staircase, a few feet away from John. "I'll see you in transfig John," he said with an amused shake of his head.

"I know," Sherlock said, still heading up the staircase. John sighed, glanced at Carl and shrugged before following Sherlock up the stair case.

"You couldn't wait through another period before we went charging up to the fifth floor?" he asked, hoping that Professor Hudson wasn't going to murder them, or give them detention.

"She won't," he said.

John blinked, he was sure he hadn't said that out loud.

Sherlock glanced at him and smirked. "No, you didn't. But that is the only reason you are worried about being late, you don't actually care about missing part of the class," John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock just gave him a smug look and John shrugged. "And to answer your question, no, because the faster we figure this out, the less of the school that is going to be exploded." John was half expecting that answer to end with some part of the school exploding. "And she likes us, she'll just wave off our lateness like she always does."

* * *

"…it's a teddy bear."

"I had noticed that yes," Sherlock answered crouching down next to it, they had opened the door to the classroom to find a lone teddy bear sitting in the middle of the room, the bear looked old, and well loved, missing an eye with a rune drawn onto it's left foot under said foot a piece of paper had been tucked.

"Hang on…" John said, as Sherlock pulled out the piece of paper. "I've seen that bear before."

"Glad you didn't go straight to class now?"

"Huh?" John tore his eyes away from the bear to glance at Sherlock.

Sherlock held up the note. "Just reading what it says. Where've you seen the bear before? …who brings a teddy bear to Hogwarts," he sounded scornful. As he didn't understand the sentiment of people.

"Carl."

"…Carl has a teddy bear?"

"_That _is his teddy bear," John said, in any other circumstance that would have been an amusing sentence to say. This one, not so much. It was a bear that Carl kept in his trunk. He'd brought it to school as a first year to remind him of home, and he never took it out of the trunk and left it at home as years went past.

Sherlock shot up suddenly. "This note isn't just because this is more interesting than class, Carl's bear, Carl is in transfiguration. We are going to be glad we didn't go to transfiguration if the classroom blows up."

* * *

The boys skidded into the transfiguration classroom, the door flung into the wall and back, John held out his hand to stop it swinging back into them. The class swivelled in their seats to stare at the two boys.

"Boys!" Professor Hudson exclaimed staring at them.

Both boys ignored her, quickly scanning the classroom, they came to the same conclusion at the same time and turned to face each other. "He's not here," and without another word ran out of the classroom.

"Boys!" The transfiguration teacher yelled after them. She didn't follow them because she presumed they were up to their usual tricks.

"Two floors between the defence class and here," John said as they stopped in the hallway to confer.

"We can't go around pulling open every door," Sherlock said. "That would take far too long then we have, considering how many rooms even an eight of a floor has. That note was a red herring."

"Well we can't just do nothing!" John exploded. "There must be another hint, another clue, _something._"

"Shh," Sherlock shushed him, and the other boy looked offended, he went to say so but Sherlock waved his hand at him and screwed his eyes shut, picturing the bear in his mind. Every little single detail he had noticed. "Runes!" He exclaimed, and tore off. John followed.

"What?"

After more than five years of dashing around the school, and up and down stairs, the two could run pretty fast, though they still hadn't developed the ability to have long conversations whilst they were doing it.

"There was a rune on the bear's foot, drawn on, recently, I could smell the ink. Didn't think much of it," he stopped talking to regain some of his breath, as he skidded around a corner nearly flying into a sixth year Hufflepuff as he did so.

The girl yelped, and John apologised for Sherlock. "Shouldn't we get a teacher?"

"No time, but runes, ancient runes classroom. That's between the two floors."

"Brilliant," John breathed, and they ran the rest of the way without speaking, each pulling out their wands as they went. John keeping an eye out for teachers in case they went past one. He was regretting not telling Professor Hudson before they charged out of class, but nothing could be done of it now.

And Sherlock had always liked doing things on his own.

* * *

A few feet away from the door, Sherlock flung his wand at it, flinging it open and causing it to smash into the wall. John had been half hoping they could stop in front of it and open doors like normal people, he needed a moment to catch his breath.

As it was the two came to a halt in the classroom. And there sat Carl Powers, sitting on a desk in the front, holding a beaker of clear colourless liquid in one hand, and a solid substance in the other.

Glancing at them both Sherlock had a sinking feeling that the beaker was water, and the solid substance was an alkali metal.

"Carl?" John said hesitantly, lowering his wand. Sherlock didn't.

"No," Carl replied, and there was something in the way he spoke that didn't sound like his voice. "But he's already figured that out," both boys turned to stare at Sherlock. Carl calmly, John frantically.

"Imperio," Sherlock hissed, wrinkling his nose, he _hated _that spell. After his experience in first year, he hated it.

"Cleverer than you look," Carl said, or whoever was controlling Carl.

"What's he holding Sherlock?" John asked worriedly, turning back to his friend.

"They are muggle chemicals," Sherlock answered. John went to move forward, but Sherlock grabbed onto his shoulder to stop him. "Don't," he warned. "You don't want him to trigger adding them together." John turned to him quizzically but Sherlock didn't explain. "What do you want Richard Brooke?"

"Hmm, what do I always want Sherlock Holmes?" he asked in a singsong voice.

John snarled. "Leave him alone," he hissed. "Imperio can't do that can it?" he asked Sherlock. "They can put their thoughts into a person, they can't speak through them can they?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted quietly.

"Answer the question," Carl hummed.

"Answer mine," Sherlock retorted.

"Your answer is my answer."

"Accio beaker!" John shouted, causing the other two to jump. Much to John's and somewhat Sherlock's dismay, the beaker did not go shooting out of Carl's hand and towards John. It stayed where it was.

All three of them turned to look at the beaker.

"Please," Carl snorted, or rather Richard Brooke snorted. "I'm not stupid enough to make it that easy, though, come any closer and he'll drop it." To make the threat more threatening he moved his hand, so the one holding the solid substance was directly above the beaker.

Sherlock hissed impatiently. "You want to be entertained, and you do that by trying to make me dance, which doesn't work by the way because I like the puzzles. _What do you want?_"

"It's all fun and games until _someone _gets hurt."

"Someone gets hurt every time Brooke, it's still fun and games," he ignored the look that this got from John, because he always got that look when he made such comments, John really should be used to it by now.

"Oh, for you maybe, but it's not much fun for Johnny here if his friend gets blown to bits, and it's not much fun for you when Johnny gets hurt."

"Don't!" John went to run up at Carl, and Sherlock grabbed onto his arm.

"John!" he exclaimed. "Don't."

"Told you not to move Johnny boy."

Carl dropped the metal.

"Carl!" John yelled.

Sherlock yanked John out of the classroom, and they tumbled into the hallway, Sherlock flinging up a shield as they hit the ground just as the metal hit the water and exploded.

* * *

Sorry for the delay in the update, school's been busy. I also do Chem at school, hence the Chemistry reference. For those who don't know, alkali metals are in the first group of the period table, and as you go down the periods they get more reactive with water. And so adding an alkali metal with water causes an explosion. (Especially if using say, caesium.) /Chem lesson of the day.

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	4. Aftermath

**Chapter Four**

**Aftermath**

The boys woke up in the hospital wing later that day. Sherlock blinked a few times, as what had happened returned to him. He hadn't managed to keep up his shield and part of the roof caved in on them.

He turned to John who was just waking up. "You okay?" Sherlock asked him quietly.

The other boy turned his head to face him and gave a short nod, before his eyes drifted around the rest of the room. To the rest of the empty beds. "…Carl?" he asked worriedly.

"I don't know, I only just woke up…" he bit on his lip.

Which was right when the matron came bustling in. "Ah boys, you are awake," she gave a relieved smile. "Does it hurt anywhere?"

"The roof fell on us, of course it hurts," Sherlock said under his breath, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position, doing his best to ignore the sore feeling scattered around his body.

"What happened to Carl?" John asked again, apprehensive, unsure if he really wanted to hear the answer to the question.

The matron turned towards John. "He's… at Mungos at the moment," she said with a troubled expression. "It was muggle chemicals, so it is possible they'll be able to save him with magic, but even then there is a chance he won't come through. He is covered in burns, and could possibly have a brain injury from the roof falling on him. Mungos is keeping both me and the headmistress informed. Don't lose hope yet Mr Watson," she said kindly.

The boy nodded, and bit down on his lip pulling his arms into his chest. Sherlock was silent. The matron examined both of the boys, and gave them a few potions to drink, which they did with wrinkled noses, before she left the hospital wing, saying she would return quickly.

"This is our fault Sherlock," John said once the door had shut behind her. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Well it is! You heard him. And you know him. He is always playing with us, pulling and tugging, and trying to find what will make us lose it. And he attacked Carl because of it."

"He's been attacking people since we got here John," Sherlock pointed out.

John scowled at him. Unwarranted in Sherlock's opinion, what he had said was true. Richard Brooke had been attacking people in the school since their first year, he had never blown one up, or nearly killed them however. "Do you care at all?" John asked him.

"Am I meant to?"

"Yes," he spat out.

"Will caring help them? Help me find out who is behind this all?"

"Caring will make it seem as if you care!" John was up out of the bed at this point, furiously standing there glaring at Sherlock, who had pushed the blankets off him and was sitting cross legged. "As if this isn't just a game to you! That the fact that people are getting hurt because both of you want to have some fun, actually bothers you sometimes."

Sherlock stared calmly back at him. "You know me John," he said, his voice was quiet but clear. "When have I ever cared?"

* * *

John knew that Sherlock was watching him pace, but he couldn't sit down. He was jumpy, and worried and angry. Worried about Carl, there was a nervous, twist in his stomach when he thought about him, hoping that he would make it through. That magic could save him. Angry at Sherlock, he wasn't even sure if it was anger at him. Maybe he was disappointed. Maybe he was angry at himself, for forgetting that _Sherlock did not care. _That it really was just an interesting puzzle for Sherlock to solve.

He gave an irritated sigh, but turned towards the door as it opened. "Mr Watson!" The matron scolded before she was even half way through the door. "Get back into that bed." John made a face but obliged, especially as the headmistress was behind her. "I'll be in my office if you need me Minerva," she said.

"Thank you Poppy," she conjured a chair, and sat down in the middle but in front of the two beds where Sherlock and John sat. "If you could go over what happened, that would be useful," she said.

The two boys glanced at each other, and Sherlock started to talk.

* * *

"You didn't mention you were still corresponding with this Brooke," she said after he had finished, eyeing him sternly.

"It was the first time this year he had left a note," Sherlock replied. "I didn't quite have the time to come tell you, before it all happened."

"Why didn't you get Professor Hudson when you entered the transfiguration classroom?"

Sherlock shrugged at her. He half felt as if he was in an interrogation. "I did not think of it at the time, we were focused on just finding out where Carl went. It didn't occur to me at that point to find a teacher."

She sighed and eyed the both of them. "You are lucky you only came out of that with minor injuries, the both of you could have blown up with him."

"Is he going to be alright Professor?" John asked, even though it hadn't been that long since he had asked Madam Pomfrey the same question.

Her gaze softened as she turned to John. "We do not know at this stage John," she said, and it didn't go unnoticed by Sherlock the use of his first name. "He is still unconscious, the healers are doing what they can, but we won't know until he wakes up. I'm sorry," she said gently.

He gave a short nod, and pulled his knees up to his chest. "Will you tell me once you know?"

She nodded at him. "Of course," her eyes flickered to Sherlock noting that he had not asked any questions about Carl, or even anything else. "Try to rest the both of you," she said, getting to her feet.

"Professor?"

"Yes Mr Holmes?"

"He's not going to stop now you know. He probably won't ever. Not until the _actual _Richard Brooke, whoever he is, is found."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Yes I know Mr Holmes, is there any reason you've chosen to mention it?"

"Just don't go chasing the wrong person, thinking that the wrong person is behind this all."

She raised an eyebrow suspiciously at him. "And who do you think I think is behind it? That isn't actually."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "You don't need me to answer that, you already know. Suspicious looks and pointed questions aren't lost on me Professor. I am _not _Richard Brooke."

"I did not think you were Mr Holmes."

"Didn't you?"

* * *

"Sherlock-"

"It's fine John."

"I didn't say anything."

The Slytherin glanced over at him. "You didn't have to, you were about to apologise, there is no need. You are upset, it's fine."

"I'm just worried about him," he mumbled quietly. "He only got pulled into this because of us."

"It isn't your fault John."

"Ye-"

Sherlock shook his head firmly. "_No, _it is not your fault. It is Brooke, it is me, but it is _not _you."

"It's not your fault Sherlock," John protested, looking over at his friend, and wondering if the other really _meant _that, or he was just saying it. Trying to make himself appear more …normal.

"Isn't it?" he tilted his head to the side. "This has always been about Brooke and me, everyone else just… gets pulled in with us. I wish I knew who he was," he gave a hiss of frustration. "Brooke, Brooke, _who is he?_" he growled.

* * *

The boys had done their best to try and be discharged before night fell, but the matron wouldn't be budged. The common room beds were much nicer than the hospital wing, but it was nice to be in the same room.

"Sherlock?" John asked sleepily into the darkness.

"Yeah?" came the reply, Sherlock didn't even sound tired.

"When do you think he'll stop?" He didn't need to ask who 'he' was, he already knew.

He was silent for a couple of seconds. "I don't know," he admitted, glad that it was dark so he couldn't see the look of mock surprise on John's face, that he just _knew _John would be giving him. "He must have had some plan, might still have one, but," he sighed. "I don't know."

"I'm worried," John admitted.

"So am I John."

Both boys lay there wondering whether Sherlock meant that or not.

* * *

The chemistry replies amused me. Also for the one that asked, I'm not really sure which alkali metal I used, or rather Brooke used, because I wanted an explosion but I didn't want to blow Carl to pieces. I just mentioned caesium because it was the first one that came into my head that was further down the group. Review please.


	5. We Can't Stop Now

**Chapter Five**

**We Can't Stop Now**

Sherlock leaned against the rails of the stairway waiting for John to come down the stairs. Every now and again he actually waited outside of the common room, but quite often Sherlock did not want to walk up seven flights of stairs. It'd be easier if John waited outside his common room, but the Slytherin's weren't too fond of a Gryffindor being near their room, and Sherlock was almost always awake before John was anyway.

Sherlock did not sleep as much as his Gryffindor counterpart.

"Took your time," he drawled when a blurry eyed and messy haired Watson trudged down the stairs and stopped next to him with a yawn.

"I have to walk down seven flights of stairs," he said peevishly, heading off into the hall, Sherlock falling into step beside him. John had often commented that the hat should have put him in Hufflepuff because seven flights of stairs before breakfast was not the best experience.

Sherlock gave an amused snort. "And you overslept because your alarm didn't go off," he added, steering John towards the Gryffindor table. John mumbled nonsense under his breath, and tried to ignore the looks that they got as they crossed the hall.

They, of course, had heard everything about what had happened a few days previous.

"Suspicious," commented Donnovan as the sat down at the Gryffindor table, holding up her toast in one hand.

"What's suspicious?" John asked tiredly, as he placed some eggs and toast onto his plate. He frowned as Sherlock just poured himself a mug of tea and ignored the table full of food.

"The way you two are _always _there when something happens," she replied. "Always you two."

"Leave them alone Sally," Mike muttered from a few places up the table. He looked tired, and worried. The attack on Carl was affecting him also, about the same amount as John who was quieter than usual.

She sniffed angrily. "I'm watching you," she told Sherlock, dropping her toast onto her plate. "You're behind this in some way, the way danger follows you about, there's no way it is simply a coincidence," she scowled at him, and got up off of the table and stalked off.

Sarah watched her stalk off with a sigh, and picked up a piece of fruit and followed her out of the hall.

"Just ignore her," John said quietly to Sherlock.

"I don't need you to tell me that John," Sherlock answered, his tone sharp. "I can see very well for myself that she's spouting nonsense," he picked up his cup of tea and ignored John's puzzled frown.

_Pity you were too slow to save the Gryffindor._

_-RB_

Sherlock, who was heading to charms, hissed at the note and pocketed it. There was no point to this one, no mocking hint, or prod towards who he was. It was simply a mocking note to irritate him. And it was working.

When he swung by the classroom later that afternoon there was another note sitting on the floor. John lounged in the doorway, shooting a venomous look at the rolled piece of paper sitting innocently on the ground.

_Maybe you'll be able to figure this one out. Before someone else gets hurt._

_I'll make it easier for you, since you bludged the last one. _

I didn't bludge it, Sherlock thought grumpily, we figured out the clues, where it was, who was being attacked. You just gave us no chance to counteract it.

_Greenhouse three._

"Come on John," he said pocketing it. "He's left us another clue."

John gave him a tired look. "If we stopped playing he's games he'd drop it. You said it yourself, he's just looking to entertain himself. If we stopped playing along, he'd stop being entertained."

"If we stop playing his games, people are going to get injured, because we won't be able to stop it," he stopped next to John in the doorway. "He won't stop just because we do John," he said quietly. "He'll keep pushing until we get involved again." He walked past John, and John stared after him for a few seconds, before he followed.

They hit the staircase and set off at a run, John stumbling and skidding down a whole flight of stairs before he managed to regain his footing. He nearly stumbled into Professor Lestrade and gave a quick apology, before he suddenly came to a halt. "Professor!" he exclaimed.

And Lestrade who had walked off with a shake of his head about students turned towards him with a questioning look. Sherlock glanced back at John, but didn't stop. "Sherlockgotanotherwarningfro mtheattacker," John said. The Professor blinked, before what John had said clicked in his mind.

He nodded, and headed off down the stairs, following Sherlock. "Lead the way Mr Watson," he said, despite the fact that he was following the Slytherin. John nodded and set off after them both.

Curious eyes followed them, but no one followed. They knew that a running Sherlock and John meant trouble, and did not want to get involved in whatever trouble they were getting themselves involved in.

"Teacher Holmes? That's a bit unfair."

The trio had charged into the green house, to find Molly Hooper leaning back against a table. Her body was shaking slightly, the fear that the girl must have been feeling, from being trapped in her own mind, showing on the outside. She held her wand in her hand, but her arm was raised pressing her wand against her skull, as opposed to towards the three who had charged in.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, he had no grievances with the Hooper girl. He had hardly spoken to her in their six years at the school, but she was intelligent and kind, and smiled at him when he passed her in the halls.

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but Lestrade didn't let him. His wand already raised, he sent a stunner at her. She collapsed against the table, and fell onto the floor.

Sherlock and John glanced at each other, because neither of them had even thought about stunning her. Though perhaps they should have. Neither of them had wanted to turn their wands on her, or Carl, however.

Lestrade hurried over, and bent down next to the girl. John and Sherlock edged closer. "I can't risk waking her," the Professor said with a frown, getting to his feet and levitating the girl. "We don't know whether the attacker still has a hold on her mind," he glanced towards the two boys. "Take care you two," he said, and left the green house, the floating Molly Hooper behind him.

"There has to be a way to stop him," Sherlock grumbled, as they sat in the library. Sherlock leafing through a potions book for his own interesting, and John steadily working on a charms essay that had been given a few days earlier.

"Ask him then," John answered tiredly, frowning at the line he had written and then crossing it out.

"Yeah that'll work," he said.

John shrugged at him, and dumped his quill to the side. "Well I don't know Sherlock!" he snapped, his mood had been slowly worsening over the course of the day. Sherlock knew he was upset at Carl, but there was no reason to snap at him over it. "I'm going to bed," the Gryffindor said rolling up his essay. "I'll talk to you tomorrow or something."

Sherlock nodded at him, and didn't look up from his book.

"Where were you at lunch?" Sherlock asked him, lolling against the wall next to the defence classroom. Their classmates milled around in small groups, chattering with their friends.

"I went to the hospital wing."

Sherlock frowned lightly. "Why?"

John stared at him, his expression half incredulous. "To see how Molly was going…" he said slowly.

"And how is she?"

John shrugged. "She's still unconscious, they want to run a few more tests before they risk waking her up. They don't know what harm it can do to wake her. But the matron said they'll wake her up in the evening probably."

Sherlock nodded.

"Coming?" John asked, once he had noticed that Sherlock had finished eating his dinner.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Where?" he asked him, running through his memories of the day to recall if John had asked him to go with him somewhere after classes.

"I was going to go check on Molly," John answered getting to his feet.

Sherlock shook his head, and followed the Gryffindor out of the hall. "I was planning on going to brew actually, I had an idea when we were in potions earlier and thought I might test it. What?" he asked, sensing John's shift in mood.

"She's only in there because of us."

Sherlock gave a tired sigh, and the two halted, halfway across the hall staring at each other. "I'm aware of that," he said tersely. He did not want the conversation that he knew was about to come. One that they had had a few times before.

"The least you could do is go and see how she is."

"I doubt Miss Hooper really cares," he answered. "Nor will she be awake to notice whether I am there or not. Not will me being there achieve anything."

"Your potions don't achieve anything either."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Then I may as well do something I enjoy, if anything I'm going to do it going to be useless," he walked past John, who sighed at him.

"It's not that hard!" John called after him, ignoring the fact that his barb about Sherlock's potion making had actually insulted him. "Is it? To go and pretend to care for a moment."

Sherlock ignored him, though his shoulders stiffened as he continued to walk out.

The students in the hall who had overheard glanced at each other awkwardly.

Sherlock heard the sound of feet before the door to the room opened. He guessed it was John, but didn't want to say anything in case it wasn't. It wasn't unusual for Slughorn to walk in and see how he was going.

"I'm sorry."

He nodded to himself, yes John. Putting the rod in and giving the potion three and a half stirs he ignored him.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, and pulled over a stool sitting next to him. He feels guilty, Sherlock thought, and added a clockwise stir, and he should. "Sherlock, will you listen to me, or do I have to throw something into your cauldron?"

Sherlock glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "And risk blowing us both up? You have no idea what any of these ingredients would do if you added them in now," he turned back to his potion and added in a few drops of a clear liquid.

"I guess I don't," John admitted. "But I _am _sorry. I was angry and well…" he trailed off with a half shrug.

"I know. But I'm probably going to blow us both sky high if you keep distracting me. This potion is very volatile at the moment. Unfortunately," he gave a mournful sigh.

"I'll… I'll go off then, so I don't distract you." And he withdrew from the room.

About ten minutes later the cauldron started to bubble dangerous, and Sherlock was forced to vanish it before it exploded on him. He gave a mournful look to his now empty cauldron and set about packing up his belongings.

Exiting the classroom he stifled a yawn, and headed off towards the common room. He paused suddenly at the sound of feet, coming up from behind him. Which shouldn't have been the case as the only thing in that direction was the potions classroom.

Pulling out his wand he turned slowly, and lit up, holding it up so that he could see better.

Out of the shadows stepped John.


	6. The Fork in the Road

**Chapter Six**

**The fork in the road.**

"Hello Sherlock."

Sherlock just stared at John for one long moment, his surprise clear on his face. After that one long moment he mentally berated himself, you weren't looking! Yes, he was staring at John, but he'd seen this spell a few times quite recently. And there was something so obviously _not _John in his stance. He berated himself for even thinking for a tiny moment that it had been John. The idea was laughable, who cared more for people than John? Who did it pain so much to seem them hurt?

His eyes narrowed at John- no Brooke. "Leave him Brooke," he hissed, eyes flickering around John's body. The others had been about to harm themselves when Sherlock came across them, why wasn't John doing the same. Why was this different.

John smirked at him. "But why?" he crooned. "It's so much fun Sherly."

"_Leave him,_" he barked, and John/Brooke grinned triumphantly. Sherlock's mind was getting confused whether to refer to the person in front of him as John or Richard Brooke. Because he saw John, but he also saw Brooke, he heard Brooke, saw the way he stood, and drawled, but in John's body, John's voice.

He tutted. "You care, so much, it's really quite funny," and his demeanour changed. John was back again, he could just _tell. _"Sherlock-" John gasped, but he didn't get much further, because suddenly the Gryffindor fell to the ground screaming.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he pulled out his wand, surveying the area. Trying to push the screams of his friend out of his mind. "Brooke," he said coldly. "Step out." Because he was hiding in the darkness, he had to be.

And out stepped Anderson.

Sherlock blinked. "_You're _Richard Brooke?" he asked incredulously.

Anderson snorted. "Of course not, I'm not an idiot Holmes. I'm not about to step out properly, that would ruin the fun hmmm?" John had stopped screaming, but he lay on the floor panting.

"Sherlock-" he started again.

And Anderson turned his wand on him, Sherlock didn't even hear the spell but there was a guttural yell from John, and his hand went straight to his leg, before he stopped moving.

Sherlock darted down next to him.

"He's fine," Brooke said flippantly, watching with disdain. "Passed out from the pain probably, broken legs do that to you," he shrugged and turned back to Sherlock as if John was insignificant, no importance at all.

Sherlock hissed at him, and raised his wand. He had no qualms at hurting Anderson if it hurt Richard Brooke too, he didn't even know if it would. But he had no qualms at hurting Anderson, that boy had been nothing but unpleasant to him, especially in the year Sherlock no longer had his older brother to keep an eye out for him.

"Now now Sherlock, you wouldn't hurt one of your classmates would you?" And with a flick of his wand, a purple stream of light flew at him. Sherlock ducked it, not sure whether it would stop when it hit a shield charm or just fly right through. And not prepared to test it.

He had not seen that spell before.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he sent a stunner at Brooke, who deflected it with. "Boring," he drawled. "Stunning? Really? I didn't know you cared," he grinned, a quick flash of white teeth. "You could join me you know," he said as he sent another spell at him, which Sherlock flung up a shield, sending it ricocheting off the walls.

"Don't really fancy it," he replied, ducking another spell, and sending a stinging hex back, which skimmed across his arm, and made the other wince. Sherlock's eyes flickered to John, who was starting to stir, his expression pained.

"You could be great you know. Use your powers for evil, wouldn't it suit you so much more?" he tilted his head to the side, and the two just stared at each other for a few moments. John groggily waking up. "I'd appreciate you more then they ever will Holmes, what are you doing anyway? Helping the good side? They don't _care _about you."

John pushed himself into a sitting position, letting out a hiss of pain as he put pressure onto his leg. "Sherlock," he said quietly, staring at his friend. "Don't listen to him."

Sherlock's eyes flickered between the two. A plan forming in his mind. I'm sorry John, he thought silently and turned away from him back to Brooke. "Why would I help _you?_" he drawled.

"What use are they to you?"

"What use are either of you to me?"

John blinked. "Sherlock-"

"Shut up," Sherlock snarled at him, and John flinched. Sherlock had to stop himself from wincing at the expression on the Gryffindor's face.

"You're not an idiot Holmes, you can't just chose neither side."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Can't I?"

And the duel resumed. John pulled his wand out of his pocket, and aimed it at Brooke, also sending a spell at him. "Keep out of it Watson," Brooke answered lazily shielding his spell. "You can't dodge anything I send at you."

"He's always been an idiot," Sherlock said with a shrug, scowling suddenly when a slicing hex hit his shoulder and tore open his robes and skin. Blue light flew at him, and again he threw up a shield charm. Instead of bouncing harmlessly off of the walls, the spell hit the wall once and then hit John, who fell to the ground like a stone.

Sherlock spared him a bored glance, it had to be a bored glance, otherwise his plan wasn't going to work. Brooke glanced at him too, and shrugged. "He'll be fine when he comes to… after a while."

Sherlock wanted to enquire what the spell did, but he held his tongue, watching the other man thoughtfully. "Come now Brooke, " he said, voice quiet. "How about a truce? Stop attacking people, and I'll stop thwarting you."

"I thought you weren't choosing a side."

"It's a puzzle isn't it? What does it matter if it's theirs, it's solving puzzles. Creating them isn't quite as entertaining. Nor as legal," he gave a small smile, but there was no cheerfulness in it. "Surely you have some sort of survival instinct, to protect yourself."

He laughed. "Of course I do Holmes, of course I do. Or I'd be standing in front of you as who I am. But," he gave a shrug with his hands. "A truce then, for now at least, I tire of fighting, I have an essay to write. You'll understand of course that I have to stun you."

And even with that warning, Sherlock didn't manage to pull a shield up in time to stop the spell hitting him and him falling to the floor.

* * *

John blearily opened his eyes sometime later, wishing that he hadn't woken. There was a steady throb in both his head and his leg, but having been drifting on the edge of consciousness it had been Sherlock's sharp voice that had woken him up.

Pushing himself onto his elbows he saw Sherlock in the middle of the room, fighting with the matron who was trying to push him back onto the bed. "For Merlin's sake!" Sherlock shouted at her, pushing past her. "I was only stunned, I've perfectly fine," he scowled and she tutted. John frowned, why had he only been stunned? That didn't make any sense.

"Mr Holmes-" the matron protested.

"I'm fine," Sherlock snarled at her, now get out of my way. She eyed him for a few moments, before standing to the side. Sherlock inclined his head and strolled past her. His eyes locked on John's for a moment, and looked as if he was about to say something, but pressing his mouth into a firm line he continued onwards, flinging the doors open and stalking out.

"Bad tempered boy," the matron muttered. "Oh Mr Watson, you're awake," she smiled at him, and came over fussing over him.

"What happened?" John asked her blearily.

"Professor Slughorn came across the trio of you in the hallway."

"The trio?" John asked in a confused voice. Surely Brooke wouldn't have injured himself, or the body he was in too.

"Mr Anderson was found unconscious also," she said with a glance across the room to where he lay unconscious. "Presumably with another stunner," she pursed her lips. Displeased at students coming into her care because of fights.

"My leg and head hurts," John admitted.

"I'll get you something for your head, and fix up your leg for you," she bustled off to go and find a potion and john frowned after her. Why hadn't she already fixed up his leg? Hadn't she known that he had injured it. Sherlock had been here, surely Sherlock would have told her.

But then he thought of the contempt in his eyes when he left the room, and the conversation of the night before. With a sigh he flopped back down on the bed, wondering what had gotten into him, and how long it would take to get over it. Sherlock got into weird moods sometimes, they usually blew over after a few days.

* * *

Sherlock went down to the potions room to brew and think, it was the weekend so he didn't have any classes to get to, and more importantly he wouldn't be disturbing any classes by being in there. Pulling out his book, he unspelled the preservation spell on the cauldron, and went to gather the needed ingredients.

Trying to ignore John's hurt expression in his mind as he did. He thought about it while he had been standing there, eyeing the both of them. John was being hurt because of him, originally it had been his friends, Carl and the Hooper girl. –Who was back in classes, but couldn't remember how she had been spelled, nor who it was, just what she had done. Which Sherlock thought was very convenient for the attacker- . And then Brooke went after John.

Because Sherlock did not care if John's friends got hurt, but he did is John did. And Brooke was willing to use that against him, he knew their agreement of a truce was not likely to last long. He'd be surprised if it lasted the few weeks left of term that there was.

So Sherlock had made a decision, if he appeared not to care for John anymore, than Brooke could not use John to get to him. He just had to make it believable, and he had the beginnings of a plan of how to do just that. With a heavy heart he turned his attention back to his bubbling cauldron that was certainly _not _meant to be bubbling, and put the last pieces together in his mind.

* * *

So sorry for the delay in the update, life has been well, life.

But this chapter was fun to write, I'm up to the part of the fic that gave me the idea for this one, and for the prequel. So that is exciting (for me anyway.)

Leave a review and tell me what you think!


	7. What's Going on with You and Me?

**Chapter Seven**

**What's going on with you and me? **

"Mr Holmes, the headmistress wishes to speak with you."

Sherlock who was at a precarious part of his potion ignored the portrait of Severus Snape, though even if he hadn't been at such a part he would have ignored it. He was in no mood to go and speak with the headmistress over what had happened in the corridor the night before.

"Mr Holmes-" his sentences was cut off by the Slytherin boy swearing and ducking under the desk as the potion blew up. Hissing in frustration he moved away from the overflowing cauldron and vanished the substance with a wave of his hand and a murmured spell.

"Fine," he hissed at the portrait. "I'll go talk to her." Severus watched in amusement as he stalked out of the room and towards the headmistresses office.

John was still in the hospital wing the next day, when he woke up, Mike sat next to his bed stifling a yawn. He gave John a small smile when he saw that he was awake.

"Hey Mike," John said quietly, with a glance around the room, half expecting Sherlock to be pacing and up and down. For all that he could sit in one place for hours on end, he was very restless. "Has-" he started, but stopped when Mike guessed his question and shook his head. John had told him the day before about Sherlock, and what had happened that night.

John frowned, and wondered what was going on with Sherlock.

"You feeling better?" Mike asked him.

John shrugged. "My head does, but my leg still feels a bit off. The matron says it's completely healed but," he shrugged again. "I dunno. It's weird. I'll be let out either today or tomorrow, right in time for classes," his expression showed just what he thought about missing his weekend and having to go to classes.

Mike gave him an amused smile. "Yeah, tough luck. Maybe the teachers will give you some slack?" At John's raised eyebrow, Mike had to agree it was unlikely.

John was discharged from the hospital wing the next day, he missed morning classes but was told to go to his afternoon ones. He lazed down to the great hall at lunch time, most of the school was still in class but some sixth and seventh years had spares and had come down to lunch early.

Eventually the hall filled up, and John watched as Sherlock completely the ignored the Gryffindor table and sat down at the Slytherin's to the surprise of the Slytherins sitting there, who glanced between Sherlock and John with curious expressions trying to figure something out.

"John," Mike said warningly as John got to his feet to go over to the Slytherin table and confront Sherlock. "Not now, do you want to start a scene?"

John hissed. "He's ignoring me!"

"Well go after him when he leaves, but don't start it in front of the whole school. They were wondering enough without a shouting match to go with it, sit down."

He did, grumbling the while and proceeded to spend the rest of lunch making sure that Sherlock didn't slip out while he wasn't looking.

Once he stood up, John was gone, following him out. Eyes followed them out of the hall. "Sherlock!" he called, once he hit the foyer. The Slytherin boy ignored him. "Sherlock!" he shouted angrily. "Will you stop and talk to me."

Sherlock stopped and turned slowly. "What Watson?" he drawled.

"Don't you 'what Watson?' me," John growled at him. "I haven't been Watson to you since first year. What is your problem?"

"You."

Sherlock resisted the urge to close his eyes as John blinked in confusion at him. "What?" the other boy said, staring at him.

"Are you deaf as well as dumb?" Sherlock asked him, keeping his tone bored. I'm sorry John, he thought as a flicker of hurt flashed across John's face. But this is the only way. You can't be hurt, you can't be used against me, if we aren't friends anymore.

And since John was unwavering loyal, Sherlock would really need to hit him to break that.

"Sherlock… What is going on? Brooke hasn't got you has he?"

Sherlock snorted. "Does it look like he has? Whenever Brooke took over a person their whole demeanour changed, you should know that, he took over you. Does it look like my demeanour has changed?"

John shook his head slowly. "You're just acting strangely."

"Is it strange Watson?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "Strange to how I usually act around you yes, but strange to how I act in general? Isn't how I act around you strange to usual?"

John's eyebrows drew together with a frown. "What are you saying…"

"Surely it isn't that _hard _to figure out, or are you really as stupid as I thought you were. I was acting, all that time around you, trying to become friends."

"Why?" he whispered, though Sherlock could tell he didn't quite believe it yet, but there was a hint of doubt in his eyes.

"Because it caused the school to leave me alone to my own devices, because you'd vouch for me. Got me out of trouble, out of being a potential suspect for attacks, because I was this strange kid that no one talked to. But once I had a golden Gryffindor friend, I was safe. "

"You – you were behind those attacks?"

"Because I'd admit if I were," which was basically a confession, though not one that could be proved. Believe me John, Sherlock thought desperately. Believe my lies, so I don't need to keep making them worse.

John shook his head. "You're not Brooke, that's impossible. I was next to you all those times the students were attacked."

"Accomplices Watson. But it wasn't me. Though he was right, I am wasting my time hanging around you. You've served your purpose. And there is only a little over a year left of school. I can manage without the nauseating halo of the golden Gryffindors," his expression turned to one of distaste.

"You. What," he stared.

Sherlock stared coldly back. "Why else do you think I would hang out with a mudblood?" He was half expecting John to lunge at him. John's expression flickered from confusion to anger to complete hurt, and he just stared. His mouth open, and his eyes full of hurt. "Nice seeing you," Sherlock drawled, and turned and walked away. Once he was faced away from John, he squeezed his eyes shut for a second and hid a sigh.

I'm sorry, he thought again. So very very sorry. But it is the only way to do this John.

John was waiting for Sherlock to apologise, or if to not apologise just to slip back into his life like usual, with no comment as to what had happened. But a week passed and Sherlock did no such thing, ignoring the Gryffindors with ease, and a with a sneer at John if the two ever caught each others eyes.

As the second week passed John was starting to think that maybe Sherlock had meant it, maybe he had been being serious. That he hadn't just suddenly lost his mind.

And it _hurt. _It hurt to watch Sherlock just disappear out of his life like that. He really had no idea what had happened, one moment he had been there and everything had been fine, and the next. This.

He was having trouble concentrating in his classes, because his mind kept slipping towards Sherlock, and there would be the boy in the back corner of the room, and it reminded John of how he was in first year, but worse. Because he was older, and with age came a crueller streak.

John wasn't the only one that had noticed, there was a lot of quiet murmurings about how he'd turned vindictive. Because usually his comments weren't purposefully cruel, he just stated facts and they came out that way, but it felt different this time. And even Sally Donnovan snapped at John one lunch time to go and make up with him, because he was intolerable at the moment. John just shrugged in response, and moved his food around his plate with a fork.

He was almost relieved when they hit exam season, because the stress of those exams took his mind off Sherlock, or at least, part of his mind. It was hard to study sometimes, when your study partner wasn't sitting next to you.

Ugh. It's a bit shorter than usual, and not as good as I was hoping this chapter would be but I really wanted to get it up because I haven't updated in a little while. Because of life and school and everything else.


	8. Without You Here

**Chapter Eight**

**Without You Here **

Exams came and went.

John went worse than he had been expecting too, but then at the same time that wasn't entirely surprising. He had had trouble studying, the sudden lack of Sherlock hit him hard, and the fact that Carl was still out of action did not help matters. Though he was conscious, and said to go home early in the holidays, and should be back at school for the new year, their last year.

Ravenclaw won the House cup, and Slytherin came in second. Gryffindor was not at all pleased that they had come last, even Slytherin was slightly disgruntled with second.

John was so relieved when the last day came, but as he and Mike settled in a compartment and Mike pulled out a deck of cards, he noticed how much _emptier _it was, without Sherlock and Carl. Right as he was thinking this, Sherlock passed the compartment, and the two of them caught each other's eyes.

John stared sadly at him, Sherlock raised his eyebrows in return before continuing onwards. John sighed loudly, Mike glanced over at him sympathetically.

"He'll come around."

"Will he?" John asked dubiously, he'd fought with Sherlock a few times over the years they had known each other, but not a fight like that. And Sherlock was _always _painfully honest when they did, which was why John did not doubt him at this time. Because he didn't see why Sherlock would lie about it.

* * *

"Do you want to invite John over for a few days dear?"

Sherlock glanced over at his mother over the table, and gave a bored shrug. "No," he said, and went back to picking at his food. He ignored the sidelong look that Mycroft gave him, and the way that his mother's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Sherlock."

"Yes?" he asked, not looking up at her.

"Why not?"

He wanted to ask, why not what? Just to be irritating, but that would get him a displeased look from his mother. Because faking not understanding annoyed her, it annoyed Sherlock too actually. He couldn't see why people would act stupider than they already were. "Because he's boring," he said instead.

Which wasn't really true, John was anything but boring. That was the reason why he had spent all these past years with him, because out of all of these boring people there was John, who for all his faults, and for all the reasons why he shouldn't have, he had caught Sherlock's interest and attention.

* * *

"Maybe Sherlock could stay here for a week or so sometime this summer?"

John had not talked to his mother about what had happened between him and Sherlock a few weeks before the end of term. He didn't want to think about, to discuss it with his mother. Not that it stopped him thinking about it, as it was constantly on his mind.

"Maybe," he said instead of what he was thinking Sherlock's reply would be to being invited over during the summer. He gave his mother a weak smile and disappeared into his room, shutting the door with more force than was necessary.

* * *

John had to admit, every time that he got an owl, he was hoping it would be from Sherlock. It never was.

* * *

Much to his mother's displeasure, Sherlock spent a lot of the summer working on his experimental potions. She would have no problem if he was working on potions in general, but Sherlock's reactions were not a reassuring sight, and she was quite partial to their potions room. She was not partial to finding him in it at odd hours of the night.

But it was a distraction, and he needed this distraction, to stop himself sending John owls in the middle of the night like he used to, his temperamental sleeping had gotten worse. Gotten to the point where he'd been so exhausted he'd fallen asleep sitting in the potions lab, while letting the potion sit before adding the next ingredient. (The potion had been completely ruined by the time Mycroft had shook him awake.)

"Sherlock, eat your dinner."

"Not hungry," he said, not looking away from his chemistry book.

His mother pulled the book out of his hand, and he gave her an irritated look. "Eat, I haven't seen you eat in the last few days."

"Well it's not as if you trail me all day," he said surly, though when he thought about it. He hadn't eaten the last few days.

* * *

"Sherlock," she said, her tone turning sympathetic. Which was when Sherlock knew that he had won, because those emotions he could manipulate. Though his mother should know this by now. The both of them and Mycroft had been dancing their dance since they learnt to walk. "I'm worried about you."

"I'm _fine _mother," Sherlock said, ignoring the disbelieving look this earned him from both her and his brother. "Don't need to eat as much now I've stopped growing." He gave her a smile that would have fooled anyone else, but not his mother.

"What happened with you and John?" she asked bluntly. And out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Mycroft still for a moment, before going back to his meal.

"Nothing," Sherlock lied. "He just got boring."

"If he was going to get boring, he would have done so long before now," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "Well he did," he said swiping his book back, and left the table. Food barely touched. Mycroft followed the action with a thoughtful frown.

* * *

"Did you and Sherlock have a fight?" John's mother asked, when he suggested Mike as a friend to take with them when they went to the beach.

"No," he said automatically. "But Sherlock had no fondness for beaches," which wasn't actually a lie. Sherlock would complain about the sand, and the sun, and John would sit there and say he should have invited Mike instead, and Sherlock would shoot him an amused smile and… he shook his head, and banished the thought out of his head. "I just want time to relax mum, not run about with my friends. I see them all year, it's nice just… being at home."

"Okay dear."

The doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," John said, heading out to the front door and pulling it open. He blinked, finding Mycroft standing there, looking every bit as if he belonged in the muggle world. "Hello?" he said with a frown. Wondering why on earth Mycroft was here.

"Hello John," he said, doing an eye flick that John associated with Sherlock, taking in as much information in a glance as was inhumanly possible. "We'll skip the pleasantries shall we? What did you do to my brother?"

John blinked, and then scowled. "Nothing."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow dubiously.

"You should be asking him what he did to me. I didn't do anything to him," he scowled, and tried to ignore the painful twist in his stomach that accompanied thinking of Sherlock. The feeling of betrayal, and the urge to curl up and cry. "Your brother has lost the damn plot."

Mycroft frowned thoughtfully, and John didn't care one whit what was going through his mind. "Well what did he do to you then?"

"Why don't you ask him?" John asked irritably, not wanting to be in the presence of a Holmes for any longer than he absolutely had to.

"We did. He claims you've just turned boring," he tilted his head to the side and watched John.

"That's that then," John replied. "Why'd you have to come here to ask me when you already have an answer?"

"Because I don't think it's a very good one. You don't become suddenly boring after six years."

"Apparently I was boring the whole way through. Only hung out with me because it…made people view him better or something."

That doesn't sound like Sherlock, Mycroft mused to himself. Though he said nothing to John because he was sure that Sherlock had a reason for doing what he was doing. And he wasn't about to spoil whatever Sherlock was planning. But Sherlock would never hang out with people because it put him in a good light, Sherlock had better things to do then to hang out with people that he did not want to hang out with.

He nodded at John, and made a mental note to ask his brother what was going on. Not that Sherlock would answer, his brother was insufferable that way. "Have a nice holiday Watson," he said, and turned down the path, apparating away half way down it.

* * *

"Sherlock."

Sherlock gave a long sigh, and glanced over at his brother. "No," he said, before Mycroft had a chance to say anything else.

The two stared at each other for a few long moments, both knowing exactly how this conversation was going to plan out.

In the end Mycroft tilted his head in defeat, but with a look that said he had finished trying to get to the bottom of this he left the room.

Sherlock wanted his brother to leave him alone.

He wanted to be left alone.

No he didn't.

What he really wanted, was John.

He scowled, and attempted to push that thought firmly out of his mind.

* * *

November was exams and NaNoWriMo, and since I hit holidays I've just had no motivation to do anything. So I'm really sorry for that. This is slightly rushed because tomorrow I am going away for the best part of a month, so will unlikely have any chance to update. Happy Holidays! And I will try to update more often once I return.


	9. Liar, Liar

**Chapter Nine**

**Liar, Liar**

"Carl!" John exclaimed when Carl opened the door to the train compartment, John and Mike were sharing. Carl beamed back at them, pulling his trunk in and shutting the door behind him. "Better?"

He nodded, sitting down across from him. "Much, I feel pretty good actually, completely healed," he shuddered slightly. "I have never felt pain like that."

"Do you remember any of it?" John asked, his mind on Richard Brooke, wondering if Carl could help place him. Before he remembered that it was not his problem any more, it was Sherlock's.

Carl shook his head. "My memories go from heading down to class one day, to in St Mungos, but I've been told what happened."

"I'm sorry," John said, at the look that Carl was giving him.

"It isn't your fault John," the other boy said. "Or Sherlock's. Where is he anyway? Though he'd be here by now, he passed me on the platform. He looked exhausted."

"He's Sherlock," John said dismissively. "That boy doesn't sleep."

"He usually doesn't show it though," Mike pointed out.

He shrugged, he really did not want to talk about it. It hurt. Mike and Carl sensing this, dropped the topic and started to talk about their summers, leaving John to stew over Sherlock.

* * *

"You and the freak haven't reconciled then?"

John glanced up from his meal and over at Sally Donnavon who was leaning across the table at him, her plate of food by her elbow. He didn't respond, but instead his eyes drifted to the Slytherin table, and after some searching found Sherlock, an empty plate in front of him.

"Oh, leave him alone Sally," Sarah berated her friend, giving John a sympathetic smile when his gaze turned back to the Gryffindors. He gave her a rather forced one in return.

"Just interesting is all," Sally said, her eyes flickering to the Slytherin table. "Inseparable for the better part of six years then…" she trailed off, staring at John intently.

"It's none of your business Sally," Carl said frowning at his house mate.

Sally glanced at Carl for a moment, and then back at John before shrugging. "Fine," she said, leaning back and pulling her plate towards her. "Curious is all."

John just wanted the meal to end, and he knew that he was going to get comments like that for a long time, because he and Sherlock had been inseparable for six years.

* * *

All through dinner, Sherlock had noticed the glances towards him. The students of Hogwarts having presumed that the duo would have made up over the break, wondering what the cause of their fight was. But unlike John, his housemates did not talk to him about it, Sherlock could tell they were slightly disgruntled by the fact that he was sitting with them again.

"Fought with your little lion have you?"

Sherlock turned, on his way back to the common room, to find Moriarty, and a few steps behind him Moran. "Obviously," Sherlock replied facing forward again. Why ask a question you know the answer to. "What do you want Moriarty?"

"Oh, you can't tell?" he asked mockingly, Sherlock gave a huff of annoyance, he hated such comments. He couldn't read minds, and looking at people didn't always give him the answers. At Sherlock's irritated stare, he smiled a smile lacking happiness. "Just voicing everyone's thoughts Holmes, wondering what has caused it all."

"Not your business, is it Moriaty?"

The boy's smiled widened. "Because you always care about whose business it is and whose it is not. As you always poke about in other people's business."

"Because I _see,_ I don't go around asking people questions. I observe."

"Yes, yes, you're a genius," he said mockingly. "Well if you're going to be that way…" he trailed off, and walked past him, Moran at his heels.

* * *

"Mr Holmes, a word?"

Sherlock glanced up at Professor Hudson as the class left the room, and nodded at her. The first week had passed as quickly as it always did, and transfiguration was the second last class of the day, a double potions lesson.

Bag packed, he headed up to the front of the room, and stood there as they waited for the room to empty. "Professor?" he questioned once the door had shut behind the last student.

"Are you alright Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock blinked. "Of course," he said after a pause. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Professor Hudson watched him, from the other side of her desk. "One can not fail to notice the…rift between you and Mr Watson," Sherlock stiffened at his name. "And whilst he has other people to comfort him, you…"

"Don't," Sherlock said bluntly, she gave a hesitant nod. "I'm fine Professor," he lied and he almost sounded as if he meant it, if it wasn't for the look in his eye as he stared at her. "I don't need anyone."

"Sherlock."

"I'm fine," he repeated sharply. "If that is all Professor?" he asked pointedly. She nodded, and he stalked out of the room, by passing the great hall for lunch and heading straight to the potions classroom. Pulling out his book, he lounged against the wall, reading.

Sherlock noticed the arrival of Slughorn before he noticed the Slytherin boy leaning against the wall. "Mr Holmes," he said in surprise, shifting his bag from one hand to the other.

"Professor," Sherlock greeted, closing his book with a gentle thump.

"You did not go to lunch?" Slughorn questioned, unlocking the door and entering, Sherlock right behind him.

"Wasn't hungry," he said, setting himself down in his usual place.

"Ah."

Potions he always looked forward to, a class he always enjoyed, and usually succeeded in distracting him from his thoughts. Slughorn gave him the potion, and Sherlock got to a start before the rest of the class turned up. Successfully tuning out Slughorn as he explained to his peers the potion.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, the time he had to let the potion simmer for, coincided with John heading towards the storeroom for a certain ingredient, and Sherlock's eyes trailed the Gryffindor across the room. John looked better than he had at the end of the term before, but he still looked tired, unhappy, even the smile he gave Mike as he returned to his place looked rather forced.

He turned back to his potion, but he had been distracted, and kept glancing towards John. Dropping rosemary into the potion, he started as he realized that it was a good few shades off the colour he was meant to have, his deep blue potion was meant to be a pale blue.

Running a hand through his hair in exasperation, he firmly forced his attention away from a certain Gryffindor, and worked on nullifying the wrong changes he had made.

* * *

"Does he never eat?" John wondered aloud, one dinner time, staring over at the Slytherin table. Sherlock had continued his not eating breakfast, neither had John yet seen him in the great hall at lunch time. It was becoming rare to see him at dinner, even. And as John stared over at him, the boy didn't seem to be eating anything, the plate in front of him empty.

Carl and Mike exchanged looks. "I thought you didn't care," Carl said, grabbing a lemon tart.

"I don't," John said quickly, ripping his eyes from the Holmes and turning to his friends. "Just commenting is all," he said defensively, to disbelieving looks. "He's hardly eaten since school started back."

Neither Carl nor Mike pointed out that for John to notice this, would mean that he did care, because he would have to be constantly watching Sherlock to see whether or not he was eating.

John was frowning.

"John," Mike said. "It's okay to care."

"I don't!"

He got a sceptical look in return. "You were friends for years, it's fine to be worried if he isn't eating."

"I'm not," but feeble protests aside, he did. Sherlock almost looked as if he was about to suddenly keel over, looked as if he hadn't had a good nights sleep in a long time. "I'm worried about him," he admitted after a few moments of quiet. "And I hate myself for it, because _why _should I care. It's not my fault, I haven't done anything to him," he had to force himself to keep his voice level, to not start shouting.

He blinked furiously. "Why do I care?" he asked, voice now quiet and cracked. "He hurt me, I shouldn't care about him."

"People hurting you doesn't suddenly make you hate them," Mike said, glancing over at Sherlock whose met his eyes. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and then glanced away, flickering over the great hall. "Because it's hard to hate a person you have liked for that long."

John wiped at his eyes. "But I shouldn't. It's not fair."

"But it's the way it works," he put a hand on John's shoulder. "And it's okay to feel what you are feeling."

John hid his face in his hand, not wanting to have a break down in the middle of the great hall. "I don't want to feel it, I just- just- want things to go back to how they were," he glanced sideways at Mike. "I can't- I just- this hurts, but even with all he's done, I'd give anything for it to go back to how it was."

"I know," he said quietly. "Come on, let's go back to the common room."

He nodded mutely, and they headed out. "I can't even bring myself to hate him for the pain he's caused, because, after everything… he's still, Sherlock. And I just want it to be okay."

Mike glanced around when they reached the staircase, to find Sherlock in the doorway they had just passed through, who had likely been trailing behind them as they left, hearing the last few sentences. His eyes were fixed on John, but glanced towards Mike when they noticed him staring, his expression unreadable.

I hope you're happy, Mike wanted to say as those blue eyes followed them up the stair case, and not for the first time, Mike wondered what Sherlock was thinking.

I'm sorry, was that thing. And he agreed with John. He just wanted it all to be okay, but it couldn't be, not yet. Because Sherlock had to keep him safe, and that would take as long as it took to discover who Richard Brooke was.


	10. Slipping Slowly Down

**Chapter Ten**

**Slipping slowly down**

It was the first time in quite a while that Sherlock's cauldron had exploded while in class. He had kept his experiments to his out of class sessions. There was a collective sigh from the students, as the ones closest to Sherlock moved out of the way, and the Professor walked over to berate the Slytherin boy.

John glanced over at Sherlock, wondering why he had decided this was a good time to go back to experimenting. It _was _Newt year. Then again, Sherlock could pass potions with his eyes shut. Though not literally, John did not want to see someone try and do potions with their eyes shut, that would end horrifically.

What struck him as odd, was not that Sherlock had disobeyed. That was nothing new or strange, but it was the look on his face. He was ignoring Slughorn completely, and staring down at the mess of his potion with such a look of confusion, as if he didn't understand what had happened.

From John's experience at watching Sherlock experiment, when his experiments blew up in his face, he just gave an annoyed sigh and started again. But this, it almost looked as if Sherlock hadn't been expecting it to go wrong.

"Keep blowing up the classroom till your own time," Sally said to Sherlock, when the class was dismissed and the students filed out.

"Maybe he's hoping to try and blow us all up with him," Anderson drawled.

"Wouldn't be surprised," said Sally. Sherlock ignored them, but he refused to speed up to get out of their presence. Refused to give them the satisfaction of chasing him off. "Wouldn't be that obvious about it though, after all these tricks these years, blowing us up would be too simple."

"I am not behind the attacks," Sherlock said through his teeth.

"What proof is there of that?" Sally asked, raising an eyebrow. "None."

He hissed. And some other time, John might have found that strange, that his composure was slipping. Remarks that previously would have bounced off him, seemed to be getting through his wall of not caring.

And so John did what many hurt, angry, people would do. He lashed out at the person that had made him hurt and angry. "Sally could be right," he said, and suddenly Sherlock stiffened and turned slowly to stare at him. Their conversations at the end of last year, echoing in both their minds. "What proof is there?" John tilted his head to the side.

The two houses all stopped, eyes flickering between the duo. While usually most people would not care if two best friends were having a fight, it was somehow different with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. As if they were the exception to the rule. There was always one group of friends at Hogwarts that the students all paid attention to, whether or not they liked them, whether or not they were in the same house.

A couple of emotions flittered across Sherlock's face, and it was only because John knew him so well that he could catch some of them, anger, disbelief and something akin to disgust before Sherlock schooled them away to a blank expression. "Like you're clever enough to see any proof," he muttered. "Stop imaging things Watson, wouldn't be the first time."

John made an angry noise in the back of his throat, and Sherlock raised his eyebrow before turning to leave, this time he did speed up slightly to get away from the throng of students.

"John?"

"What?" John asked Carl, looking up from his mostly finished essay. He just had to finish reading over it, making sure there wasn't any blaring errors.

"You have to hand that essay in in ten minutes or it's late."

John glanced at his watch and swore. It had been meant to be due during class the day before, but as John hadn't been able to finish it the Professor had granted him an extension. "It'll have to do," he said, rolling it up frantically. "I'll be back," he called over his shoulder as he bolted out, and towards Professor Hudson's office.

Breathless, he knocked on the door, and pulled it open at the enter in reply. He then froze in the doorway. Professor Hudson sat behind her desk, nursing a cup on tea in her hand, and on the other side of the desk, also holding a cup of tea sat Sherlock Holmes. Who glanced around boredly at the opening of the door.

"Uh," John said eloquently, holding up the hastily rolled and somewhat dented roll of parchment. "My essay, Professor."

"Ah, thank you Mr Watson."

John crossed the room to pass it to her, noticing that Sherlock's eyes trailed him the whole way across. She took the parchment, and John gave an awkward nod, leaving the office. However, once he'd closed the door he did not move away and instead stood there, trying to listen.

"Don't start Professor," Sherlock said in a tired voice. There was a pause, and he made a noise that could have been amused but sounded somewhat off. "I'm fine."

"Sherlock," she started, in a voice that John could hardly here.

"I'm fine," he repeated, somewhat sharply and there was a clink as a cup was placed down and the sound of a chair being pushed against the floor. John started for a moment, and then realizing that it was likely Sherlock was about to walk out the door, sped off down the hallway, disappearing around the corner right in time for Sherlock to see.

In charms a few days later, John glanced over at Sherlock to see the Slytherin boy pulling a folded piece of paper out of his book, his brow pulling together as he read over it. John had a strong urge to get up out of his seat, and plop himself down next to Sherlock with a question, 'what does it say?' Instead he just twitched in his seat, and forced himself back to his classwork. Eyes continuously drifting to Sherlock, who was now ignoring his books completely and staring into space, his fingers pressed against each other, in front of his face.

_Waiting, waiting, waiting, aren't you Sherlock? Never fear, you won't be waiting much longer._

John walked past the second floor in time to see Sherlock disappear in, a piece of paper furled in his hand. John stopped, hesitating out in the hallway. He missed it, he would never admit it to anyone, but he missed it. Missed running through hallways and up flights of stairs chasing after a person that could not be found, missed Sherlock appearing in the common room in the middle of the night and dragging him out of bed much to his dorm mate's bemusement. He missed Sherlock, and all that came with him. He missed the boy, so brilliant that he failed to understand simple things, even after a few years of astronomy Sherlock had still been hopeless at it, wasn't able to list half the public holidays, ("It's _Christmas _for god sake's Sherlock, how do you not know what day it is?" The boy had shrugged. "Knowing it's in December is close enough.") He could practically read your whole history based off your appearance, but struggled to understand feelings, muddled them within motives, and didn't stop ever to think that maybe some of the things he said were tactless, were hurtful. ("It's the truth," he would protest, as if being honest made up for being mean.)

John thought of Sherlock and it _hurt, _it hurt so much in a way that he had never thought it could hurt. He missed his best friend, and he hated him for doing this. For making John _care, _only to turn around and state that it had all been en elaborate trick.

John thought of Sherlock, glanced at the doorway and continued down the hallway to lunch.

_Now really, of course I can't tell you, that would completely ruin the surprise. Wouldn't it?_

"If everyone could please partner up…?" Professor Lestrade waved his wand, and the tables all moved to the side of the room as the students grabbed onto their friends arm or caught their eye.

"Could we be a three Professor?" Carl called over the room towards the defence teacher.

"Is there not enough for pairs?" he asked with a slight frown, wondering if he had miscounted the students, and then noticed Sherlock leaning back on the wall, watching the class. "If one of you could partner up with Mr Holmes…"

Carl, Mike and John all glanced at each other, waiting for somebody else to offer to go with Sherlock. The Professor watched them expectantly, as did Sherlock through half closed eyes. After a few moments Lestrade sighed. "Watson, Holmes," he said, and all four students stared at him and wondered if he was blind.

"I'll go," Carl said, putting an arm on John's hand.

"It's fine," John said back, and Sherlock hid an amused smile, he wasn't going to back out now, didn't want to seem weak.

"I don't care who does it, as long as someone does," Lestrade said tiredly. "I'd like to get this lesson started boys."

Rather defiantly, John crossed the room over to where Sherlock lolled on the wall, he jutted his chin up slightly, and Sherlock gave him an amused look. "Watson," he drawled. John made an involuntary jerk but said nothing.

"We should start," he said after a few uncomfortable minutes, where Sherlock just stared at him, having not been this close to him for this amount of time in quite a while, and seeing what he could pick up. (Toast for breakfast, been up late working, lost his tie –the one he was wearing was a spare of Carls-.)

"Indeed we should," Sherlock said, but he didn't move off of the wall.

John made an impatient sound, which sounded so familiar that it made Sherlock want to smile. He resisted the urge, as John moved a few feet back, and pulled out his wand.

Sherlock who already had his in his hand, flung a spell at John, who had been expecting Sherlock to meander for a little longer before starting, and winced when a sting of pain hit him in the chest. He turned to Sherlock, with an angry expression, and Sherlock simply raised his eyebrows.

A chance to further along the cover, Sherlock thought as he sidestepped away from a spell, keeping his eyes on his classmates so as not to walk into them, because he had duelled slightly fairer on John than he had ever done on anyone else. Because he respected John.

_Keep an eye out Holmes, things are just starting to warm up._

The last few chapters have been mostly about Sherlock and John dealing with what has happened, but as I've planned it, Brooke and his plans should start to make an appearance in the next chapter, or the one after that at the very latest.

Hope you're enjoying the story!


	11. Honesty is (not) the Best Policy

Chapter Eleven

Honesty is (not) the best policy

Sherlock knew something was wrong when he woke up in an abandoned classroom, instead of his dorm room. The boy wrinkled his nose, and pushed himself up onto his elbows as he glanced around. He wrote it off as his dorm mates trying to pull something on him, though he thought it was rather Gryffindor-ish of them.

He frowned when he glanced out the window, and the sun was quite high up in the sky. With a sigh he got to his feet, of course they would have magically knocked him out, he was a light enough sleeper that trying to move him would have awoken him. At least he had robes pulled over the top of his sleeping clothes.

His teachers weren't going to be very impressed, but then, he didn't really care.

Judging by the emptiness of the hallways, it was right in the middle of class, though without a watch he didn't know which class he was meant to be heading towards. He could have worked it out if he had bothered, but he would rather miss the class completely than have to explain _why _he was late. In front of a collection of his classmates.

Second floor, he established when he stepped out of the room, and then turned back towards it with a frown. The room of his correspondence with Brooke. "A coincidence surely," he mused. His house mates wouldn't know about that. And he doubted it was Brooke playing a trick on him.

"Mr Holmes," a voice said, and the boy spun to find Professor Turner standing there, watching him suspiciously.

"Professor," he answered.

"Why aren't you in class?"

"I had a spare," he said, hoping that the Professor wouldn't think anything of that, as a sixth year he did have a nice collection of them.

"Whilst the rest of your year is in potions?" she asked, her suspicious look worsening. "I recall you being a member of that class."

Sherlock just stared at him.

"If you'd follow me, Mr Holmes."

"Where?" he asked, not moving to follow her.

"The headmistresses office."

"For skipping class?" That seemed quite excessive, even for a teacher that didn't like him. He doubted MgGonagall would be impressed by being disturbed for such a trivial matter. But then, Professor Turner had held a grudge against him since the first week in first year.

She didn't reply, and walked off and with a sigh the boy followed her.

"Mr Holmes," McGonagall said gravely when Sherlock entered the room behind the Professor. He frowned slightly at her tone, it didn't suit the circumstance, especially as she didn't know what he was in here for.

"He was claiming he had a spare Minerva," Professor Turner said.

McGonagall nodded. "Thank you," she said, and the other Professor left the room. McGongall gestured Sherlock into a seat.

"There's been another attack, hasn't there?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"But that doesn't explain why I'm here," as she was still adamant in attempting to keep him out of events. Which really didn't work for her.

"Because the student attacked has claimed that you were the one who attacked him."

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. "_What_? That's ridiculous," he said scornfully. She stared at him, and he stared back at her. "You don't think I did, _surely._"

"Why else would he claim it was you?"

"Doesn't like me? Was confuded to think it was me? There's quite a lot of options for that Professor, it isn't hard to magically muddle thoughts of evidence Professor."

"Then where were you this morning?"

"In a room on the second floor," he answered.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Why?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Woke up there. Some of my dorm mates idea of good trick I'd presume."

"According to one of your dorm mates, you left in the night and didn't return."

"Because they wouldn't want to admit what they've done, would they?" Common knowledge, he thought irritably, of _course _they won't going to admit what they'd done. Even if the face of him getting into bad trouble. They hated him enough for that.

"I doubt they'd-"

"You forget who you're talking about Professor," Sherlock interrupted. "These are not your lions who have a sense of right and wrong, and a desire to do the right thing. A Slytherin will save their hind, _unless _it is protecting someone they care about. My dorm mates certainly have no care for me, and thus, they'll protect themselves."

She frowned thoughtfully, staring over at him. "Another thing," she said after a few moments, and from her draw pulled out a wand and passed it to him. He took it, and glanced up at her sharply.

"Why do you have my wand?" he asked, turning it around in his hand.

"It was found at the scene of the attack."

"It was _not _me," he said, pocketing the wand.

She eyed him for a few moments. "You are free to head to class now," she said, and Sherlock eyed her suspiciously at the sudden dismissal but rose to his feet, and left the room to head back and change into his clothing.

He was only part way down the hall when he heard his name again, coming from a portrait on the wall. "Yes?" he asked, stopping and turning to face Professor Snape.

"Where were you this morning?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I believe I answered that Professor."

"Yes," Snape said simply. "You did."

He tilted his head to the side. "You don't believe me either."

"I neither believe nor disbelieve you Holmes. As you said, we will always save ourselves first, unless there is a greater cause. And as you said, you do not care for them, you'll protect yourself."

Sherlock had had a feeling that those words would come back to bite him, but they were true after all. "I would protect myself," he agreed. "But I am no fool Professor, If I had attacked a student, I would make sure I was not seen doing anything out of the ordinary, I would not miss my class, and I would certainly not leave my wand at the scene."

"Ah but Mr Holmes, if one so brilliant was going to commit such an act, trying to blame yourself would be the easiest way for people to dismiss it as you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the professor. "Someone else is playing games, this is what they want, and I have no intention of letting them get it."

"Any ideas as to who?"

"The same person that's been causing all the trouble we've had here."

"Brooke."

"Brooke," Sherlock affirmed. "No doubt."

* * *

Classes had ended, and Sherlock was on his way up to the library, when John called his name. His first name. The Slytherin boy stiffened. No, he thought, because he recognised that tone. John no. Leave this before I have to hurt you to keep you away.

He turned. "Yes, Watson?" he asked boredly. And John twitched slightly, but the determined expression stayed on his face. "Get on with it, I do have better things to do."

"No you don't," John replied. "You have homework and blowing up the potions room to do."

Sherlock shrugged. "Still better than talking to you," he turned to leave.

"_Sherlock._"

He shut his eyes and stopped, facing away from him. "What?"

"Can we talk?"

"I believe that's what we're already doing."

John made an irritating noise, and the corner of Sherlock's lip twitched. "No I mean- properly."

He turned back. "About?"

He stared at him, floundering for a moment. "You know what."

"No, I don't believe I do. And besides," he added as John walked up to him until they were only standing a foot apart. "I have no desire to talk to you, being in the presence of a mudblood is already-"

His words were cut off, because John grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him roughly into the stone wall. "Don't call me that," he hissed. And Sherlock raised an eyebrow, good, he thought. This'll keep him away.

"Why not?" he drawled. "It's true." What he hadn't been expecting, though really should have, was for John to let go off his shoulders and punch him in the face. "Always were an uncivil breed," he said, bringing up a hand to rub at his face. However, that seemed to be the breaking point for him, and with his hopes of reconciliation gone, his anger and hurt came back.

Something you never want to be on the wrong side of a Gryffindor, especially moments after calling him a derogatory term. Sherlock had underestimated John's anger, and how much calling him such a thing hit him right in the wrong spot.

It took Carl and Mike, who were heading up to the common room, to collectively pull John away to stop him attacking Sherlock. A Sherlock who was curled on the ground wincing, with a bleeding nose.

"John, John, calm," Mike was saying. "He's not worth it." John made a growling angry noise, but as the seconds went past, Sherlock heard him be pulled away down the hall.

He had expected Carl to have gone with him, but moments later the scarred boy bobbed down beside Sherlock. "Come on," he said, in a tone that was neither hostile nor friendly. "We should get you to the hospital wing."

"I'm fine," he said, holding a hand to his nose, and shifting so he could sit up. Carl and Sherlock stared at each other for a few long moments.

"Come on," Carl repeated, and he helped Sherlock up to his feet much to the disgruntlement of the other boy. "What did you say?"

"Who says I said anything?" his voice muffled by the hand in front of his face.

"Because you and I both know that John would not have attacked you for no reason. Not unless you'd provoked him somehow."

Sherlock glanced sideways at Carl and shrugged.

"Sherlock, what did you say?"

He stiffened. "I don't recall us being on first name basis anymore Powers."

"Perhaps not, but answer."

"_Why?_"

"You owe me."

Sherlock pulled away from him, and raised an eyebrow. "For what exactly?"

"That I ended up in Mungo's for a month?" Carl suggested.

He narrowed his eyes. "I was not behind that Powers," he said.

"No," he said, surprising Sherlock. "You weren't. But you didn't stop the person who was, in time either."

"It wasn't my responsibility to."

"I know, and you tried. And I don't blame you. But Holmes, this time, you find that person, before John gets hurt."

* * *

Review please :3


	12. I Believe You Liar

Chapter Twelve

I believe you liar

"Nose better then?"

Sherlock stiffened, and turned slowly to find Mike Stamford some feet away from him. Would you Gryffindors leave me alone, Sherlock thought irritably. This is hard enough without your meddling. "Apparently so," he said, unconsciously moving his hand to rub at it.

"You'll get worse if you say that again."

He tilted his head to the side. "Apparently so?" he questioned, with obvious stupidity. "What's wrong with that?"

Mike narrowed his eyes. "Don't play stupid Holmes, we both know you are anything but that."

"Humour me."

The other boy visibly struggled for a few moments, obviously not wanting to say the word. "The…crude word for muggle borns."

"Mudblood?" Sherlock questioned, his lip twitching at Mike's response. Mike was a pureblood, though a blood traitor. Not that Sherlock really cared any about blood status. Blood matters, ability matters more. A Slytherin motto. And to Sherlock, ability mattered above all else.

He was mildly offended that they all fell for it. Surely John knew him well enough to know that it didn't matter to him. Surely he wasn't playing the part _that _well. It was a good sign if he was, but all the same.

"Don't," Mike snapped.

He rolled his eyes. "Was there anything you wanted Stamford?" he asked, with an impatient tap of his foot. He'd been on his way to the potions room when he'd been apprehended.

"To tell you to stay away from John."

"I was. He was the one that came after me. If he kept away then we wouldn't have a problem."

"And stay away from everyone else."

The Slytherin raised an eyebrow, and looked mockingly around him. "Yes," he drawled. "I am so very surrounded by people, I certainly need that comment."

Mike just stared at him. You think I'm behind the attacks, Sherlock thought. How many others think the same, he wondered. How many people believe that I am attacking my classmates. People had made such comments over the course of all the years that he had been at Hogwarts, people like Sally Donnovan, but a majority of them hadn't thought so. Apparently the tide was changing.

As long as the Professors don't. He did not care if the rest of the school did. But if the Professors thought so, he could be expelled, or it could be referred to the ministry. (Though if that happened Mycroft would _surely _intervene somehow. Despite being young he was rising quite rapidly) But if he was expelled from Hogwarts, he could not solve this.

"Sure thing Stamford, I'll leave everyone alone. If you leave me alone," and with that, Sherlock turned and continued down the hall to the potions classroom. Ignoring the portrait of Snape, who flittered out of the room right after Sherlock entered, but returned a quarter of an hour later.

Right in time for Sherlock's cauldron to explode.

"My, my Holmes, you are getting rather careless," Professor Snape said as Sherlock dove for his wand and away from the mess. The boy vanished the potion on the second try, and glared at his cauldron that was now in pieces. "That is an error I expect from a first year, perhaps a second if they are struggling. Certainly not you."

Sherlock's glare turned from his pieces of cauldron to the portrait on the wall. "Accidents happen," he said shortly. But the Professor was right, it was a simple mistake he had made. Hadn't given the Cauflower time enough to mix with the rest of the solution before adding the firecone. A rooky mistake.

"Yes, but not by you." Sherlock's expression soured, and he turned away from the portrait to deal with his mess of a cauldron. "Something on your mind?"

"No," he said shortly.

"You are not perhaps worried that the school thinks you are attacking students?"

Sherlock glanced sharply at the Professor. "Are they?" he questioned. Stomach sinking.

"Perhaps, perhaps not." Which wasn't quite an answer. "But there is a potential of it, and therefore why you would be worried."

"I'm not worried. Because I'm not attacking anyone."

"Then prove it." Sherlock turned to ask _how, _how could he prove such a thing, but Snape shook his head. "Not to me Holmes. Don't prove it to me. You have to prove it to everyone else. While playing that little game of yours."

"What game?"

"Your game with Brooke. Your game with Watson."

"I'm playing no game with Watson," he said, forcing distaste into his tone.

The former head of Slytherin house raised an eyebrow. He recognised that tone of forced distaste, had used it many times before. And it is very difficult to fool a person with the same tricks that they had used to fool so many others. "Aren't you?" he questioned. "You give the impression that you are."

"How so?"

"You don't need me to tell you what you already know Holmes."

"Oh, I know it. But you could just be stabbing a guess in the dark," he pointed out, moving vials of ingredients back into the storeroom.

"Perhaps."

The two were silent as Sherlock packed up. Too irritated at himself and the mistake that he had made to continue working on his potions. Sherlock headed to the door, and paused when the potions master spoke. "Take care Mr Holmes." The boy glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow in question. "You're playing a dangerous game, and you might just find that you are betting more than you are prepared to give."

"I'll keep your warning in mind," Sherlock said, sounding slightly mocking as he left the room.

* * *

_One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war. Five, six, seven, eight, transfiguration classroom, don't be late._

* * *

Sherlock pulled open the transfiguration classroom door, to find a body on the floor. Third year, Ravenclaw, he assessed almost immediately and bobbed down closer to the student to inspect further. There was a crumpled piece of paper in her hand, and Sherlock had just uncurled the hand to scoop it out when the door swung open and much to Sherlock's luck in came Professor McGonagall, followed by Professor Turner.

"Holmes," the headmistress said in astonishment, her eyes flickering to the body behind him.

"Wrong place, wrong time," Sherlock answered, getting to his feet and shoving the piece of paper into his pocket, her eyes followed the movement.

"There seems to be an awful lot of that," she said as her college moved forward to inspect the body.

"There does, I can't help that."

The headmistress eyed him suspiciously. "These coincidences seem to be adding up," she said and glanced at the student on the floor again. "Mr Holmes, if you could escort yourself to my office and wait there. You know the password I believe."

He nodded, and withdrew from the room heading in the direction on the headmistresses office, pulling out the note from his pocket as he did.

_Eight, Seven, Six, Five, I'm staying alive, four, three, two, one, you might not be when all this is done._

* * *

"What brings you to this office, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock turned at the sound of the voice, to face one of the portraits on the wall. Facing Professor Dumbledore he answered. "The headmistress asked me to come and wait here."

"Why?" This came from another portrait, but Sherlock didn't glance away from Dumbledore.

"There has been another attack."

"And you were found at the scene of the crime," said Dumbledore, sounding curious as opposed to accusatory.

"Yes," he said simply, sitting himself down in a chair, eyes landing on Snape for a moment. "A case of simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Not the first time it has happened."

"It happening more than once doesn't make it any less valid, does it?" Sherlock questioned.

"But there is something you are not telling us," this came from Snape, and Sherlock shifted so that he was facing him.

"What gives you that idea?"

"There always is. Whenever a student gets caught up into an event at Hogwarts, they are always keeping something relevant to themselves," his lip curled disdainfully.

"I am not hiding anything," Sherlock replied calmly.

"Then what has happened between you and Mr Watson?"

The Slytherin boy stiffened, and narrowed his eyes at the portrait. "He got boring," he said in a drawling tone, but the portrait remained obviously unconvinced, even if the one beside him – Dumbledore – gave a troubled frown.

"I'm sure," Snape said.

"Believe what you will," he said.

"I shall."

"Hm," Sherlock said, turning his attention to gaze around the room, waiting for someone to speak. Someone was obviously going to speak.

And sure enough, he had hardly been quiet for ten seconds when Phineas Nigellas spoke. "How did you know where the body was then? If it was not you that put it there." There were some murmurs around the room, as the other previous headmasters and mistresses wondered the same thing.

He hesitated. "I was simply passing by that room, the door was ajar. And considering Professor Hudson tends to lock her door after class," due to a rather unfortunate incident years back where it got pranked. "I was curious." It sounded quite feeble even to himself, and the portraits seemed to agree.

There is something you are not telling us, Snape's gaze seemed to say. It would be better for you if you did.

Not this far into it, Sherlock thought to himself. He couldn't bring up the letter writing all this time later. That would look suspicious, that he hadn't mentioned it during this whole time. It would look as if he'd made it up. A last minute trick to get him out of trouble.

"One day, a students curiosity will be their downfall."

Sherlock spun, finding the headmistress standing in the doorway. He hadn't noticed her enter, that was strange. He gave a troubled frown. "Quite possibly," he responded. "But there is nothing wrong with curiosity in itself."

"No, there is not."

"I believe I've answered all of the questions you would ask, already Professor."

"Possibly," she said eyeing him. "Possibly not. But have I answered the ones that you should ask?" he tilted his head to the side, brow furrowing in confusion. "Why Professor Turner and I ended up in the classroom."

"Oh," he said, yes that hadn't occurred to him. "Why did you?"

"But before I answer that, I do have another question for you," he gave her a nod to show he was ready for it. "Before you went to that room, where did you come from?"

The room on the second floor was the correct answer, but then he would have to explain why, and that came back to the earlier decision not to tell them about his correspondence with Brooke. So instead he answered with where he had been before that. "The potions classroom."

Judging by the way the headmistresses expression darkened, that was the wrong answer. "Is that so?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, with a slight frown. "Professor…?"

"Coincidences keep piling up Holmes, it's coming to a point where they can not be ignored."

"…what happened in the potions room?"

She regarded him coolly. "Another student who was attacked. Hidden from sight by a large amount of spells. Hidden well enough that the only way we knew that something was not right was because when he entered his portrait Professor Snape was unable to see what was happening in the room," Sherlock's eyes flickered to Snape. "Presumably the attacker was going to move the boy at a time where there was less people around, so less chance of being picked up on."

He stared at her. "You're insulting my intelligence Professor. I am _not _foolish enough to attack a student in a room and say I had just been there when there is a chance that the attack would be found." Professor Snape's earlier words echoed in his head though, that it would be clever of him to do so, because by blaming himself it made it less likely that he would be found as guilty. Because it was such obvious blame on him.

The Professor's were evidently thinking down this line. Because he was clever enough to work it like that, work it in his advantage that way.

"Perhaps, perhaps not Holmes. But I am afraid I cannot rule out the possibility. And as such, measures need to be taken."

He narrowed his eyes. "What measures?" he asked.

But just as she was about to reply, the door flung open. "Minerva!" Professor Hudson exclaimed, without even an apology at entering so unannounced. "There's been another one."

"Who?" she asked, worry clear on her face.

"John Watson."

* * *

Still here! I know it's been a little while, and I won't make excuses about that, but so sorry. I'm still (slowly) working on it though, and I'm very grateful for the support I've gotten from all of you that read this.


	13. Innocent Until Proven Guilty

Chapter Thirteen

Innocent Till Proven Guilty

Sherlock's face went ashen. "What?" he barked, in a tone far louder than he had been previously talking in. Everyone (including the portraits) in the office turned to stare at the boy. "How? What happened to him?"

"We don't know," she said hesitantly, addressing her words to Sherlock as opposed to the headmistress. And despite how worried and upset she looked at the attack, there was something in her expression when she looked at Sherlock… something that suggested she was glad that he had reacted how he had

His eyebrows pulled together worriedly. "You must have some idea," he said keeping his voice controlled as best he could, but it was wavering. Staring at her. Tell me he's fine, he thought desperately. This can't have all been in vain.

"Not yet Sherlock," she said softly. "The matron is working on it, but currently we are unsure. He's been knocked unconscious but we are unaware of what has caused it. He could simply just be unconscious, or there could be something else that we can't tell until he wakes," she glanced at McGonagall. "Something needs to be done Minerva. There are always accidents at Hogwarts, the parents know that but this..."

"The ministry are bringing in aurors to investigate," the headmistresses said, and her eyes flickered to Sherlock in a gesture that Professor Hudson understood.

"No," she said, answering her silent phrase as opposed to what she had said. "You think so? I don't agree with you."

Sherlock glanced between them, understanding that this was about whether or not he was behind it. But he kept silent, curious to see what either would say.

"Mr Holmes," McGonagall started. "Could you wait out-"

"Minerva, if you are discussing his involvement, he should be here," a previous headmistress commented.

"Suppose so," she said, almost reluctantly. And Sherlock could tell she would rather if he was not there.

"Gives the accused to chance to defend himself against the accusations," Snape said, and the boy glanced at him but the portrait was staring at the headmistress.

"It would appear I'm outnumbered," she murmured, looking distinctly unpleased.

"He would not attack Watson, Minerva," Professor Hudson said, and Sherlock had mixed feelings about how sure she was. Good because it might get him out of this mess, bad because of what he had been trying to achieve with separating himself from John.

"They have not been on the best of terms of late."

"Fighting with your best friend does not mean he's attacking him," she pointed out.

"I know, but it can't be ruled out."

"I did not attack him," Sherlock said, butting into their conversation. He had to deter them from that thought, from finding him as guilty. Hopefully it wouldn't come to giving up his façade.

"We can't be sure of that Holmes. With all things considered the blame is tipping towards you."

"Minerva, aurors are on their way," a portrait interjected, and she nodded acknowledging that she had heard.

"Should we postpone this conversation until they arrive?" she asked the others. "So we don't end up having to repeat ourselves."

There was a murmur of accent, and the group fell into a wary silence for the minutes that it took for the aurors to arrive at the headmistresses office. Potter, who Sherlock had met a few times over the years, throughout the course of his mysteries and Lestrade who had been a fifth year when Sherlock had started at Hogwarts.

The teachers and aurors greeted each other, and Sherlock stood to the side, watching them carefully. _New watch, new shoes, writing recently, just gotten over a cold. _

"Holmes," Harry greeted, walking over and holding out his hand.

"Potter," Sherlock returned, and took it.

Lestrade nodded at him once he had greeted the teachers in the room. "Lestrade," Harry said. "Why don't you talk to Minerva here? I'll talk to Holmes outside." Lestrade nodded, Professor Hudson pursed her lips. "Don't worry," Harry said with a smile at her. "He's safe in my hands."

"But are you safe in his?" a former headmaster murmured, and a few eyes flickered in that direction but the comment was largely ignored.

Harry gestured Sherlock out of the room, and the boy followed, knowing most of what would be said in his absence. The suspicions of him being behind it. Harry stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and Sherlock watched him expectantly.

"Nothing to say?" Harry asked him.

"No?" he said, tilting his head to the side. "Are you expecting me to?"

"You usually do, something to tell me about my life," he smiled, and countless things about his life ran through Sherlock's head, both that he could see and facts that he already knew, but he kept quiet. "Very well, then onto the matter at hand-"

"It wasn't me, Potter," he cut in, and then bit down on his lip glancing away down the hall.

"The evidence points towards you-"

"How do you know the evidence?"

"How do you think Holmes?" Harry asked patiently. "Minerva has told us, voicing her concerns but-"

"She thinks I did it."

"No, she fears that you did, are. Worries. She just simply wants it investigated in case there is a chance that you have. Someone is hurting her students. She needs it to stop."

"It isn't me."

Harry watched him silently for a few moments, and then gestured for Sherlock to follow him. He did so, and the two walked in silence for a short while. "The problem with telling a story, Holmes, is that at one point you realize you have dug a hole that is slightly too big and you can't get out without calling for someone to help."

"I'm not telling a story," he protested.

"You are," Harry glanced at him, his green eyes watching him intently. "You've gone from not caring if people think you are behind it, to caring what a lot that people think you are."

"They are both the truth."

"But what changed?" Sherlock didn't answer. "Something did. The fact that it wasn't just the students that thought it, but the teachers started to as well? The fact that your friend got injured-"

"He is not my friend," Sherlock snarled, forcing the venom into his tone. But Harry simply stared at him patiently, with a slightly amused expression on his face, that was clearly humoring him.

"Found your story," he said.

"It's not-"

Harry held up a hand and talked on top of him. "Whatever you say Holmes. But watch it, because you are walking on thin ice, and everyone around you is setting that ice on fire. You are a smart boy, and you don't need my help or my warnings, you probably don't want them either. But you are digging a hole, and the bottom of that hole might be expulsion or being arrested. So if you need to rethink your game plan, it is not too late to do so."

Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Understood," he said.

Harry smiled faintly. "Now, what are your suspicions of who is behind it?"

"Same person that has been behind them all, Richard Brooke."

"And yet this Brooke has never been discovered."

The Slytherin shrugged his shoulders. "He's clever, very clever," and if there was a hint of excitement and admiration in his tone, Harry pretended he couldn't hear it. "He slips, but never enough for him to be revealed, only his plan and whoever is his puppet."

"So how do we catch him?"

"How indeed, that's what I've been trying to figure out all these years, Potter."

* * *

It seemed that McGonagall had been convinced out of him being behind the attacks, or at least as much that he wasn't being immediately vacated off of the premises.

It was also the second time in a matter of days that he had been given the same warning. Be careful with the game you are playing, don't dig yourself in too deep. First from Professor Snape, and then from Harry Potter. Sherlock was mildly worried that Harry had caught on, Snape was one thing, he was around the school, watched Sherlock. But Harry…

He gave a troubled frown, and walked along the hallway. Things kept piling up, and he was starting to feel that he was getting further and further in without any chance to pull himself out. After all this time, he still had no idea who the attacker was. And that frustrated him, more than almost everything else. There must be something obvious he was missing, something that just wouldn't click in his mind.

It was late, just barely curfew and as Sherlock reached the stair case he was the only one on it. As far as he could see. He stood there in the quiet, and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply.

When he opened them, he set off in the direction of the Slytherin quarters, but stopped, turned on his foot and headed up the stairs, towards the infirmary. He had to see John. Had to check on him, make sure that he was okay.

The door was shut, and the lights were out. But Sherlock being Sherlock, pulled out his wand and with a murmured spell unlocked the door, silently stepping inside. A few of the beds were full, students who had been attacked by Brook.

Sherlock perched on a chair next to John's bed, and frowned down at his friend. Could he still call him friend, after all that had happened. John no longer saw them as friends, and Sherlock no longer acted as though they were. But in the safety on his mind, in his mind, he stilled called John friend.


End file.
